Tale of the Tongues: A Skyrim Story
by Elissa Theirin
Summary: Athena, the bastard daughter of Ulfric Stormcloak crosses paths with Caleb, the dragonborn! The pair meet in blood and rivalry but set aside their differences to slay Alduin and free Skyrim from the dragons that now plague the land.
1. Chapter 1

Tale of the Tongues: A Skyrim Story

**Welcome all to my very first fanfiction, I hope you enjoy it! Review or PM me to let me know what you think, constructive criticism is always welcome!**

**A shout out to all my friends for giving me the motivation to make this, and a special big thanks to me friend Dylan for letting me use his character as the dragonborn!**

Prologue

Skyrim. It was home to all species of people, but primarily governed by Nords. Nords are fierce and hardy with an abundance of honour and put great stock into the strength of their sword arm. While some have welcomed the change of their traditional lives that has been bright with the White-Gold Concordat, a treaty between the Empire and Thalmor, others saw it as oppression. Worship of Talos was banned, sparking anger amongst the Nords. Rebels known as 'Stormcloaks' saw their Nord traditions threatened, and refused to live under the Empire's tyranny, as they called it. Ulfric Stormcloak led the rebellion, Jarl of Windhelm, and prospective High King of Skyrim, against the Empire led by General Tullius, each believing their cause is righteous, and each trying to free Skyrim from the grasp of the other.

Chapter 1

_By judging others we blind ourselves to our own evil and to the grace which others are just as entitled to as we are- Dietrich Bonhoeffer._

Judgment. Distrust. Hate. Three words that perfectly summarised the sensations that Athena felt when winding her way through the snow-enthralled streets of Windhelm, watched by numerous eyes. They did not see a youthful, innocent youth that wanted nothing more than to live in peace and prosperity, but a product of one lustful, dishonourable night which automatically made her treacherous by nature. For she was the base-born daughter of a brothel whore and Ulfric Stormcloak, High King of Skyrim and Jarl of Windhelm. Her mother had passed away almost sixteen years ago, birthing her, so Athena had passed into her father's care. She had named her daughter 'Athena' with her dying breath.

Athena was born with her fathers' golden hair, and her mothers' fair skin, hazel eyes and delicate figure. But the townsfolk still saw her as nothing more than a bastard, not to be trusted. Even the dark elves that lived in the Grey Quarter rampant with disease and poverty reviled her.

"Look, its Ulfric bastard!" One Breton woman whispered to her tittering friend.

"I heard she's a whore's daughter," one man muttered to her left.

"Think she takes after her mother?" His friend asked, then both raucously laughed.

Athena never responded, or showed any external sides she had heard their hateful gossiping. But she felt the words inside her, cutting at her heart.

She expeditiously returned to the Palace of Kings, which had become the only 'safe' place for her in Skyrim, and she used the word loosely.

The Jarl's Palace of Windhelm was a typical Nord building; not exactly pleasing to the eye, but practical, its sturdy walls offering great protection against the blizzards that permanently buffeted Windhelm. Saying that, the inside was rather splendid, a plush, royal-blue rug stretching from the doors Athena stood at, shivering and dripping melted snow, to the throne her father sat upon. In the centre of the room was a long mahogany table, laden with platters of meat such as beef, venison, chicken and horker, with bowls of fresh bread, grilled leaks, baked potatoes and honeyed parsnips, dishes of apple pie, strawberry tart and sweet rolls, as well as flagons of alto wine and nord mead. Around the table were four Windhelm guards, gorging themselves on her fathers' food. They scrutinized her closely as she passed to the throne. She remained a respectful distance from it, and curtseyed with a mumbled "Milord."

He lord father was an impressive man, with a mane of fierce flaxen hair, and a harsh yet comely face with a strong chiselled jaw, prominent nose and grey eyes that could pierce into a person's soul. Around his mouth was a smattering of stubble that oft he would stroke in contemplation. One of his most notable features, though, would be the deep scar that ran down the length of his right cheek, awarded to him with his fight with Torygg, the king that reigned before Jarl Ulfric. He wore it as a badge of honour.

King Ulfric lounged casually on his throne, looking every bit a true monarch. It was little wonder he both intimidated and impressed his daughter. He looked down his nose at her like a wolf looked at a dead chicken, sizing her up.

"Come closer, daughter," he said beckoning her.

Athena could only stare at her father before she complied with his request. Her father had never once openly acknowledged her as his kin, especially in front of others. He gave her food, shelter, clothes, money and even payed for lessons in sword-art for her, but he rarely spoke to her directly, and if he did, she was known as 'bastard', or 'girl'.

"I will shortly be going on a little…hunting trip tonight, you could say. You are to remain in Windhelm; I'll make sure Galmor will take care of you."

"But…what are you hunting?" Athena asked, fearing the answer.

"A plague upon the land. A blight of rats that has scourged this land we call home. It may be dangerous, but I will return, with the head of the leader those mindless vermin follow, and has allowed foreign infestation."

"You promise? To return?" Athena asked fearfully. He was far from the loving, paternal father every child should have, but was the only family she had left.

He snorted. "Of course I will. Don't cry, daughter. True Nords don't cry. And you are a true Nord. Because you are a Stormcloak."

By nightfall, he rode off, flowers thrown at the feet of his mount as he passed through the winding streets of Windhelm into war. Athena saw him off at Windhelm's heavy, steel gates, watching him and his men ride out into the blustery wilderness, before she returned home, curling up in her bed, listening to the howling wind that blew outside. _My only companion…_

Snow and decay had claimed the flowers and turned them into empty corpses before he had returned.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_I am convinced that imprisonment is a way of pretending to solve the problem of crime. It does nothing for the victims of crime, but perpetuates the idea of retribution-Howard Zinn_

Bindings. That was the first sensation Caleb was aware of when his consciousness returned. That and the slow motion of a carriage. A blinding pain mercilessly assaulted his head, causing him to narrow his blue eyes as the pain intensified by the sudden light of sun. He shook the short locks of his black hair from his eyes to attempt to shake off the clouds of indistinctness that debilitated his memory. All that he was aware of, now, was that he was in a carriage with three other men, herded down a steep, cobbled path, framed by fir trees which symbolised the world's first stirring of spring.

Waiting at the bottom of the slope was a miserable village stripped of all the colour that bloomed in the wilderness: brown mud thickly coating the ground, grey homely cottages with straw thatched roofs and tall, stone watchtowers looming over the hamlet, a constant turnkey to the oppression that thrived here. The scene was finished by four, tall walls.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake." A middle-aged nord man addressed him, with a tangle of dark blonde hair, dirt-smeared face and blue eyes. He was garbed in a blue cuirass over a shirt of chainmail—the armor of the Stormcloaks. "You walked right into that Imperial ambush too, right? Same as me and that thief over there."

It was the truth, he realised. It was completely unjust, as Caleb had no involvement with the Stormcloaks, or the Imperials. He hailed from Cyrodil, and had come to Skyrim for one reason alone, which had nothing to do with their political struggles.

"Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along," Spat the thief. "Empire was nice and lazy. If they weren't looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell if you hadn't have shown up."

The thief looked the very embodiment of poverty and squalor, with greasy, bedraggled brown hair, caked in even more dirt than the Stormcloak, and pitiful attire was undyed, soiled woollen tunic.

The third man on their carriage was rather young and comely, but he was gagged unlike them. He had long, golden hair and eyes as cold as steel, a definitive scar on his right cheek. He was dresses an overcoat lined with ermine, under which was a plate of steel. He let out a muffled, angry growl at the thief's words.

"What's his problem?" Asked the bandit.

"Watch your tongue!" Snapped the Stormcloak, furious. "You're talking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!"

"Jarl Ulfric? If they captured you then that means…oh Gods! Where are they taking us?"

"Execution," Caleb answered grimly. He had been in Skyrim for long enough to know how Nord 'justice' worked.

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Akatosh, Divines, protect me!" Soliloquised the thief.

"Hey, what village are you from horse thief?" The Stormcloak asked in a gentle voice.

"Why do you care?" He responded ungraciously.

"Because every Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Rorikstead," his voice was trembling, almost hysteric. "I'm from Rorikstead."

The gates of the village screeched open to allow them passage, manned by Imperial soldiers in their leather surcoats over brown tunics with sleeves of red. Those higher in rank had steel chest pieces in place of leather.

"Helgen," Voiced the rebel, savouring the word. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making mead mixed in with juniper berries. Funny, when I was a boy Imperial walls and towers used to always make me feel so safe."

The folk of Helgen watched their progress in avid interest as their carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of a wall.

"Why…why are we stopping?" Asked the thief, panicked.

"Why do you think? End of the line," Answered the rebel grimly.

Caleb had no other option but to step off the carriage, caught in this mockery of justice. If he were to die today, it would be with dignity to honour his ancestors. Caleb's own thoughts turned to home, of his younger sister Ariath, a girl of two-and-ten by the next moon turn. Caleb and his father had trained her in sword-art themselves.

The horse-thief stepped trepidatiously from the horse-carriage, as though in fear the ground itself would swallow him whole.

"Step to the block when we call out your name, one at a time!" Yelled the Imperial captain, wearing a heavy steel breastplate over the Imperial tunic.

"Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm!"

"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric," said the Stormcloak solemnly, as his king joined the rebel soldiers assembled before the block.

"Ralof of Riverwood!"

Without a word or flicker of hesitation, Ralof joined his brothers and sisters-in-arms.

"Lokir if Rorikstead!"

"No, you can't, I'm not a rebel!" He protested cowardly.

"To the block prisoner," The captain ordered lazily, remaining ignorant to his pleas.

"You're not gonna kill me!" He cried with delirious triumph, as he began to flee.

"Halt! HALT! Archers!"

An arrow whistled through the air and cleaved through the flesh of his chest. _Foolish_, Caleb thought grimly.

"Anyone else feel like running?"

The challenge was met with silent refusals.

"Wait," the soldier next to the captain spoke as he caught sight of Caleb. "Who are you?"

"Caleb. I hail from the city of Bruma in Cyrodil."

Just speaking the name of his city conjured the image of his blizzard-beaten home town nestled in the Jerall Mountains, the tall peaks of the buildings and mountains forever capped in snow. Ariath, running through the streets, wooden sword in hand, he snow melting in Ilithea's red hair, her sweet, dimpled smile…

"An Imperial?" The soldier asked, stunned.

"Captain, he's not on the list. What should we do?"

The captain surveyed him with cold eyes. "He goes to the block, same as the others."

"As…as you say, captain. I'm sorry. I'll make sure your remains are returned to your family."

_Thank the Gods for small favours then_, he thought sarcastically.

Like the other captured prisoners, Caleb took his place before the block, already stained with the blood of the lives that had been taken. A priest was present, commending their damned souls to the nine divines. The first prisoner rudely cut her off, before stomping to the block, resting his neck against the crimson, splintery blood.

"My ancestors are smiling at me. Can you Imperials say the same?" He asked derisively, before the axe came down, his blood running down the side of the block in rivulets.

"Next, the Imperial!" Called the captain.

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

Caleb approached the block with steady steps, his ears stopped by his palpitating heart. He fixed his eyes on a particular spot in the village, ensuring not to stare at the severed head in the basket, nor the wicked edge of the blade, dripping blood.

The captain roughly forced his head on the block, he could feel the soaked edges of the wood pressing uncomfortably on his neck. The axe gleamed wickedly as it was brought down to his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Just to let you know, I'm going to try to stick to updating one chapter a week, mostly likely at the weekend, but it may change! Thanks to all who followed, faved and reviewed!**

**And I hope you are liking you're dragonborn so far, Dylan ;)**

Chapter 3

_Humans have a knack for choosing precisely the things that are worst for them- JK Rowling_

And that was the moment it appeared. The beast that swooped down from its lofty height in the mountains and perched on the peak of the watch-tower. Its scales gleamed in the piercing sun, black as night, as were the wings that unfurled, casting a shadow on the land below.

"What in oblivion is that?" A voice cried.

Others screamed, ran, fleeing away from the terror of a legend come true, reborn. A dragon.

Caleb watched in fascinated terror as it opened its mouth wide, revealing rows of perilously sharp teeth, and unleashed a raw. Its mighty voice stirred the world around it, bringing forth what is base in it, hiding its virtue.

Swirling black and purple clouds overtook the ocean-blue creating a tempest of strong winds and lashing rain. Thunder illuminated the ugly sky.

Another roar shook the land, knocking the executioner off his feet. Caleb was too knocked back, his head connecting painfully with the ground. He struggled to sit upright, blood streaming into his eyes. Through a red haze, he could still see the dragon, its piercing eyes fixated on him. They were terrifying.

He got to his feet with some difficulty, and ran to the other tower in which the Stormcloaks had taken refuge in from the dragon, which was now unleashing a deluge of fire down onto those brave enough to challenge it.

He shut the door behind him with his bound hands and leaned against the rotted wood, head throbbing, heart palpitating, his thoughts directed to the impossible apparition that lured just outside. And all that stood between them was a flimsy contraption of stone and wood.

"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?" Ralof asked in a hushed town.

"Legends don't burn down villagers," the rebel leader replied, amazingly calm.

From outside, he could hear the dragon roar. It sounded like it was moving closer.

"We need to move, NOW!" Ralof shouted. "Up through the tower, let's go!"

Caleb didn't hesitate to follow him up the spiral staircase. He was determined to escape; he had to emerge from here alive! Even if it meant allying himself with the rebels. Ilithea was here in Skyrim, and he would find her again, dragons be damned.

As they neared the top, the wall to the right was smashed open, baring a close sight of the terrible dragon in all its unholy glory. Caleb and Ralof took cover as it dowsed the inside of the tower with fire. From behind the solid chunk of stone, he could still feel its searing heat prickling along his skin. Once the flames and dust had settled, Caleb could see that the way up had been blocked. He looked out of the gaping hole in the wall down into the terrorised village. The dragon flew overhead, circling around its destruction with abhorrent pride.

"You see the inn one the other side?" Ralof asked, pointing to the building parallel to the tower. "Jump through the roof and keep going. Go! We'll follow when we can!"

Caleb casted a sceptical look downward. The height was dizzying, creating a strong sense of vertigo.

_Oh? I thought you liked heights as I do…_ Caleb started when he heard the teasing female voice sound in his brain. He could almost see her dimpled smile and red hair tugged at by the wind as they both stood at the apex of a mountain on the outskirts of Bruma. Caleb had warned her away from the edge, but she merely laughed. She always was brave…

Before he knew what he was doing, he had leapt from the tower, his body soaring down and out. Time seemed to slow as the decimated roof of the inn loomed closer, his momentum beginning to decrease, and gravity drag him down…straight into the inn.

His hands bound, he landed clumsily on his shoulder, the bone jarring in protestation against the impact. He righted himself, and then flew down the stairs and out into the maw of Helgen to see the little village had been consumed by blood and strife. Imperial soldiers loosed arrow after arrow at the black beast, but it seemed to barely notice the projectiles. It continued its siege, catching people in its jaws and crushing them, incinerating them with its breath and even plucking them from the ground as it swooped low over the village.

Caleb continued to push through, grimly passing scenes of cowering villagers and deserted children crying overt the bodies of parents and siblings. But he could not help them. Not like this.

"Still alive prisoner?" An acerbic voice inquired. "Stay close to me if you want to stay that way."

It was the Imperial he had seen with the captain, calling out names from the list. The one that had written his down. Hadvar, he had heard him be called.

But it was not the time to begin petty squabbles. Instead he followed the soldier as he picked his way through the panicked civilians and the dragons reign.

"Stay close to the wall!"

Caleb complied with the request, as soon as the dragon sat itself on that very wall, looking over the scene before belching flames, oblivious to the two that crouched below, adjacent to its colossal wings.

"Quickly, follow me!" Hadvar cried, as the dragon tore off once more.

Caleb ran after him, the ropes cutting blisters into his wrists, his lungs chocking with the acrid atmosphere that carried the stench of burnt flesh, his heart beating furious with the exertion and the attestment to his survival.

The dragons shadow passed directly over him, casting shade on its toils. Burnt bodies, sacked buildings, grieving widows and orphans. So much death and destruction in scant minutes. Was this the devastating power of the creatures of legend?

As Hadvar and Caleb neared the keep, a Stormcloak burst onto the scene, weapon in hand.

"Ralof, you damned traitor!" Spat Hadvar, "Out of my way!"

"We're escaping Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time," he retorted.

"Fine, I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" He yelled disgust and hatred dripping from his voice.

Hadvar and Ralof each headed for a different door of the keep for their escape, both entreating him to join him. He felt, no, he knew he was now involved with the civil conflict within Skyrim, and now had to make a choice: Imperial or Stormcloak?

Caleb inhaled deeply as he reached his decision, and prayed it was the right one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Little short, I know. Hopefully I'll make it up to you in the next couple of chapters! Enjoy! ;P**

Chapter 4

_Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape-William S. Burroughs_

The Keep was dark, dank, with lichen and moss staining the dark blocks that constituted the walls. The cracked ceiling dripped droplets of water in a slow, methodical pattern. The orange glare from the torch sconces on the wall reflected off the wet ground below.

"Here, let me get those bindings off for you," Hadvar said, then cut through the rope with a dagger.

Caleb was glad to be free of the bindings, but the damage was already done—his wrists were blistered and bleeding. He massaged them, grimacing.

"And…here." He offered him Imperial armor he had found in a chest, as well as a sword of simple but unblemished steel.

He gratefully accepted the armor, donning it over his threadbare linen shirt and breeches that did nothing to assuage the cold conditions of Skyrim from seeping into his bones. He also took the sword, though he was somewhat reluctant. He did not relish the thought of having to use it against another person. What's more, recently he had begun training in the arcane arts. It had been years since he had last practiced with a sword. Nevertheless, he accepted the sword and scabbard and slung it on his back, praying he would not have to use it.

Hadvar led him down a dark, narrow corridor, at the end of which he could see light, and could just hear voices drifting towards.

"Hold up," Hadvar ordered, halting his movement, remaining immersed in shadows. "Stormcloaks." He spat the word with vehemence Caleb didn't think he was capable of.

Hadvar proceeded to storm into the room, sword and shield drawn, startling the rebel soldiers, of which there are only two: one man with a mace and shield, and a woman baring a two-handed sword.

Hadvar deflected the mace easily, and forced him back with his shield, once then twice. With one single strike of his sword, he sent his head rolling.

The woman rounded on Caleb, swinging her heavy blade to his head with frightened eyes. He quickly blocked, then parried a consecutive strike to his side. But he couldn't bring himself to retaliate. She was a young woman, dark haired and fair of skin, couldn't be any older than three-and-twenty. It was the fear in her blue/green eyes that shook him the most, the fear tinged with regret.

"Stop this!" He entreated her. "We don't have to fight!"

"Die, Imperial!" She spoke those words but they lacked any conviction or ill-will. They were spoken tremulously.

"She will not listen. Kill her!" Hadvar yelled.

And so he did. The first opening he saw, he suck his blade into her abdomen. Felt her body stiffen, and the blood steeple onto his fingers, warm, so warm, it nearly burnt. Saw the terror in her eyes intensify, and her body fall lifeless onto the ground.

"Let's move. We still have plenty of ground to cover."

_Is this what I've been reduced to? Following the orders of someone whom was ready to have me killed, and killing women?_

"Prisoner?"

The part of his skin stained in blood felt unsanctified, dirty. He stared down in horror at the crimson liquid. _What if my family could see me now, mother, father, and little Ariath? And Ilithea, what would she think?_

"Prisoner!"

"Yes?" He replied testily, teeth gritted. Right now he felt tempted to swing for the guy.

"We must move if we are to leave her alive. You should not regret killing Stormcloaks. They get what they deserve."

Caleb couldn't answer. He just stormed ahead of him, already becoming weary of the Empire and Stormcloaks war.


	5. Chapter 5

**Not sure I like this chapter, but it's only filler, since I've had quite bad writers block recently. _ **

**Ah, well, hope you still enjoy it! ;P**

Chapter 5

'_Was it really a person that I was so anxious to discover…or was it only my own solitude I could not abide?' -David Markson_

Ilithea gyrated her shoulders. The Imperial armor was so heavy to her, despite the fact that she had worn and trained in it for the past four months. Then again, not once before had she worn clothing heavier than the velvet cloaks she had worn to ward off the bitter cold of Bruma, so cold it could freeze a flame atronach.

But it wasn't just the armor that felt odd. The sword at her hip and bow slung across her back felt out of place. Ilithea had never really used weapons before joining the Legion; it was a miracle that she got accepted!

"You know, I've always wondered, why did you join the war?" A familiar voice behind her inquired.

It was Eruna, a fresh-faced young Nord woman with dark hair and big blue eyes.

"Where is this coming from suddenly?" She asked evasively.

"You first," said her friend teasingly.

Ilithea sighed before she divulged her story to her. "I was born in Skyrim, originally, but raised for most of my life in Cyrodiil. I moved here a couple of years ago when I heard my older sister, whom stayed here, had fallen ill. I planned to nurse her back to health, but by the time I had returned-" She paused to swallow back the tears- "I was too late."

"I'm sorry, 'Thea. I had no idea," Eruna said, addressing her dainty feet. "But why did you stay?" She looked up meekly. "Were you not happy in Cyrodiil?"

"Quite the contrary," Ilithea replied, a smiling forming on her face, at the memories. "I had loving friends and family. My family was not always rich. But we lived comfortably enough; I was content enough."

"So why stay?" She asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

"I'm not really sure," Ilithea answered unsurely. "Once I had buried and grieved my sister, I just…didn't want to leave. And to answer your original question, I couldn't just sit idly back while this country tore itself apart. I joined in the hopes to make a difference, save as many lives as I could. I joined the Legion because the Stormcloaks despise all those whom aren't Nords, and Ulfric has no claim to the throne! They start a war and claim that they are the righteous!"

Ilithea's hands balled into fists and her cheeks turned as red as her hair. Simply talking about the Stormcloaks was enough to send her into a fit of passion.

Eruna smiled. "We could use more people like you. But enough stories for now. We've been given a job, and its best we go take care of it now."

Ilithea smiled sadly as she rose to her feet and followed her friend. No matter what words were spoken, she didn't think either cause was righteous.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

'_One's destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things'-Henry Miller_

"Damn dragon!" Hadvar cursed aloud, as the beast collapsed the passage behind them in a landslide of rocks, debris and dust. They had no other option but to proceed forwards. Unfortunately, the noise had attracted unwanted attention.

"You Imperial bastards!" A voice cried, accompanied by the whistling of an arrow that clattered uselessly off the blockage.

Hadvar himself unsheathed his own bow and retaliated. His arrow buried into the archers left eye, whilst others swarmed towards them from across the room of the cavern, wielding swords and shields.

Caleb dived to avoid a two-handed blade that was brought to his head, then drove his shoulder into the man's stomach, knocking the air from out of him. The rebel doubled over, and Caleb seized the chance to stab him through the neck. His body fell from the blade with the sickening sound of wet flesh sucking at steel. He barely had any time to regret the murder before another charged.

Hadvar's arrow pierced his thigh, land Caleb stabbed him through the midriff. It left them surrounded by so much destruction. Hadvar seemed unaffected, but Caleb couldn't help but assess the chaos he had seeded with guilt. He had wanted no part of the civil war, but no he was seen travelling with an Imperial, the Stormcloaks would accost and attack him. The brutal world they lived in taught its children one lesson: kill or be killed.

The two Imperials passed over the bridges that stretched between the natural ledges of rock that shot up from out the shallow body of dirty water, which funnelled into a narrow path with some web on its ceiling. It emptied out into a larger room, walls and roof thick with web. And down from the intricate network of white silken thread descended the spiders. They were grotesque, fearsome, and dwarfed the size of domesticated dogs.

Their pincers were abnormally large to the extent their heads could hardly bear the burden of them, saliva, or perhaps venom dripped from them. Above them were eight black eyes that gleamed with hunger.

Hadvar unsheathed a sword, swung at one that was awarded a brief flash of blood from its body. He then blocked its clacking pincers eager to tear into flesh. Caleb himself unleashed a jet of fire from his hand, eager to maintain distance between himself and the beast. When the orange flames engulfed it, the spider released a series of horrifying squealing noises as its body burned. He broke from spell-casting to nimbly dodge a glob of web that hit the wall. Hadvar buried his sword into one of its eyes, which profusely bled white liquid, before it curled up in death.

But then a larger one presented itself, lowering to the ground from its lofty height on an invisible thread. It was a terrible sight to behold: at least twice the size of the other spiders.

Hadvar's sword deflected harmlessly rom its tough hide, and it shrugged off Caleb's fire spell. Alarmed, Hadvar struck it again in sheer disbelief and growing panic.

It lunged, snapping at him, he quickly jumped back and guarded his chest against the consecutive attack with the flat of his blade. Hadvar was then encased in web, his torso and limbs glued to the floor. The spider loomed over its trapped prey, mandibles snapping the air, savouring the anticipation, eyes shining with excitement…

…But its eyes dimmed as a sword severed one of its legs from underneath it, causing its gargantuan body to crash to the floor. It squealed in shock and pain then attempted to pivot its body on seven legs to see the perpetrator.

Caleb thrust the steel blade between its pincers, than sliced up through its head, destroying several eyes. He turned away in disgust from the sight of its large body flopping onto its back and legs curling inward in defeat, and helped free Hadvar from his prison of web.

"Thank you, friend," he said gratefully as Caleb helped him to his feet. "You should really consider joining the Legion."

"Why so?" He asked curiously.

"We really could use more people like you."

Caleb wasn't sure if he should be amused or irritated. The Empire was ready to see him killed, now they wanted him to join their cause. But he could not hold the grudge. It seemed petty, in light of current events. Such as the return of dragons.

"I'll consider joining," was all he could say. He was not ready to make any promises.

"Well, so long as you don't run and become a rebel, you and I will have no quarrel," He replied, not fully satisfied by his response.

"You need not fear that," Caleb scoffed. He had no intention of signing up with the Stormcloaks—they started this war.

"Hold up!" The Imperial soldier hissed, dropping to a crouch. "Cave-bear up ahead. See her?"

Ahead, illuminated by a shaft of light coming down from the broken ceiling was a large mass of chocolate-brown fur, expanding and contracting with each steady breath it took.

"I'd rather not tangle with her today. We can try to sneak past her. Or if you're feeling lucky, take this bow. Maybe you can get a clear shot on her." Hadvar proffered him his bow as well as a bundle of arrows. "Your choice."

Luck had not been their strong point so far, but he would feel better knowing the bear was dead. He took the bow, nocked an arrow, loosed and prayed to the divines for the best.

It buried itself into its flank, awakening it from its slumber. She charged toward them with furious speed. Caleb quickly fumbled for another arrow from the quiver, nocked and loosed. It landed betwixt its eyes.

"Nice shot," Hadvar commented as they sauntered past the kill, following the stream of murky water.

Caleb held out the bow to Hadvar, but he smiled and said "Keep it."

He gave the simple wooden bow a cursory glance, and nodded in satisfaction, slinging it over his back. It was of plain design, but well-made, sturdy and reliable.

And after a few more moments of traveling along with the shallow, narrow stream, they spied an opening ahead, from which issued flakes of snow and a bitter cold wind. The cold seared his lungs and skin, but it was a pleasant sensation. The feeling of freedom.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

'_All parents damage their children. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge the glass, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair'- Mitch Alborn_

He returned. Father rode back to Windhelm, days after he had left, grim-faced as ever, clothes maimed and stained, a haggard, fatigued look about him. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, prospective High King of Skyrim rode into his city matted with dirt and blood, weary and battered. But to the people he was still a hero. To Athena he was still intimidating.

She curtseyed as she passed through the gates, from out of habit. He looked even more exhausted when he saw her, but nodded in acknowledgment. He dismounted from his horse and went straight to the Palace of Kings, not sparing her another glance. She quickly scurried after him, burning with questions, but knew better than to ask them aloud.

"Ulfric! What happened?" Galmor inquired when he took in the sight of his King.

"We walked into a trap," he answered heatedly, seating himself in his throne. "The Imperials ambushed us, and took us to Helgen for execution."

"Cowards!" Galmor cried angrily.

"But there is more." He paused for a moment before resuming. "A dragon appeared, Galmor. A **dragon**."

"By Shor," he gasped in wonder. "A dragon? Really?"

"Yes, there was no mistaking."

"But the dragons were killed centuries ago," Athena blurted, her panic taking control of her tongue. She instantly regretted it, and bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood.

"True," her father replied, as surprised as she was by her outburst. "But it appears they are returning. Maybe all were not killed."

"What are we to do now, Ulfric?" Asked Galmor.

"This will not affect our plans. We proceed as before and pray the Gods are merciful."

"Why not treat with the Legion?" Athena asked. Dagon's eyes, she should just cut out her tongue and be done with it.

The look Jarl Ulfric gave her could have frozen over Oblivion. "Treat with the Empire? Bend the knee to Tullius and let the Thalmor seize our lands from us?" He rose from his throne towards her. "The elves have made the Legion their bitches, and if we let them, they will have us all in chains!"

There was anger in her voice, but she pursued the idea. If the dragons had returned, the best chance they had was if the Empire and Stormcloaks joined forces.

"But you started this war, why not end it now? Peacefully."

"Watch your mouth, bastard," Galmor cautioned her.

Ulfric silenced him with a look. "So you believe the Empire is right?"

"No, I didn't—"

"Very well, you can go see how good and kind they are yourself, on the battlefield. Tomorrow, you will be a member of the Stormcloak army."

She was dumbstruck. "J-join the army?"

"You're a grown woman, and have lived on my charity for the past sixteen years of your slothful life. It's time you started earning your own way in this world. So you can join the army, beg on the streets for septims or follow in the footsteps of your mother."

His words stung her. But the dangerous look in his eyes was worse.

"Well?" He snapped, waiting for her response.

"I will join the army." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she could scarce believe she had said the words.

"Good. Galmor, get her fitted out for armor."

Ulfric's right-hand man grabbed her forearm and nearly dragged her from the throne room. She looked back to her father with desperate eyes, beseeching him for mercy, forgiveness, anything. But he didn't lift his eyes to look at her.

The following day, Athena stood in the north of Skyrim, a little past Winterhold to participate in her trial to join the Stormcloaks. Half of the Nords in Skyrim would consider this an honour. To the other half, it was a punishment. Athena was still unsure what to make of it all.

She trudged through the ankle-deep snow, garbed in the blue Stormcloak armor and thick fur cloak to fend off the cold. A bow was slung over her back, and a dagger was strapped to either hip. Her eyes constantly scanned her surroundings, searching for the white flicker of movement. Her initiation to join the Stormcloaks was to kill an ice-wraith. What better place to search for one than in the coldest place of Skyrim?

Athena treaded the plains of frozen water carefully, lest she fall through the sheet of ice to the water below, where pneumonia and slaughterfish would claim her life.

She managed to cross them with no casualties, then climbed a cliff to her right. Her feet slipped from off the icy, slippery surface twice, near sending her plummeting to her death. By the time she reached the apex, she was out of breath, and her fingers were red and agonizing from the cold. She lay down on the snowy ground, not caring about the drop in her body temperature.

Then there was a sudden flash in the peripheral of her vision. She sat up straight, glancing around on suspicion. Her hands shot to the pommels of her dagger under her cloak as an inhuman screeching noise filled the air. She looked behind and saw an ice-wraith floating in the frigid air, opening wide its jaws to issue forth a stream of frost. Athena scrambled away, feeling the gust of cold at her back, consolidating into chunks of ice on her longer strands of ice.

It whirled around its worm-shaped body, lashing its tail of ice at her knees, knocking her onto her back. The wraith hovered above her, and Athena threw up her arm above her in defence. She felt her arm explode with icy pain, and cried out in agony. Her free hand grabbed a dagger, and drove it through the creature's skull, relieving the excruciating grip on her arm, but the teeth remained lodged there.

Wincing, she grabbed them and pulled them out; they hurt more coming out, and the blood oozed freely from the wound. She kept the teeth as a testimony to her successful mission, then limped back to Windhelm, cradling her injured arm.

"I didn't believe you had it in you, girl," Galmor said in astonishment when she presented him with the teeth of the ice-wraith. "Well done, I guess you really are your fathers' daughter."

Stone-fist probably meant it as a compliment, but Athena wasn't so sure that she thought it was. Instead she just nodded mutely, still clutching at her bleeding wound. She was beginning to feel light-headed.

"You might want to get that arm seen to—you look like you've lost a lot of blood. Oh, and welcome to the Stormcloaks sister."

Athena plastered a smile on her face, even though she felt like crying. She didn't feel so welcome thus far.


	8. Chapter 8

**I know I said earlier I would update it once a week, but to be honest I'm just going to update whenever I want/can :P**

Chapter 8

'_Who's more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows it?'-Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars Episode 4_

Riverwood, Hadvar's home village was a small hamlet; it couldn't have any more than twenty families living here. It was situated in beautiful surroundings: a clear, blue river wound its way around the banks of the village, with a gorgeous backdrop of mountains capped with snow. Across the river was a meadow with flowers of pink, blue, yellow and violet.

"Hadvar!" A voice cried as they passed under look-out towers manned by guards.

The voice issued from an aging man with blond hair turning grey, and wrinkles around his grey-green eyes.

"Uncle Alvor!" Hadvar hailed him back.

"What happened to you boy? You look like you wrestled with a cave-bear and lost! And who's this?" Alvor asked as he saw Caleb standing beside him, looking as worn and battered as his nephew.

"Caleb," he introduced himself awkwardly. He felt an intruder here.

"He is a friend," Hadvar explained. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him."

"Well, any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine," Alvor declared genially. "You best come in. Sigrid can make you something to eat, and you can tell me all about what happened."

Caleb was ushered with Hadvar into a small, quaint home. It was all one room, the east occupied with three beds with ancient wooden frames and straw mattresses. The western section of the room was dominated by a table ladled with dishes, in the centre a steaming pot of broth with an aroma of rabbit, carrots and onions. A hearth choked in ashes stood proudly in between.

"Hadvar!" A woman gasped, absconding herself of the chair on which she sat sewing. She must've been Sigrid.

The woman like her husband, was set in her years, her sand-blonde hair streaked with grey. Her blue eyes were framed by gentle wrinkles that grew more pronounced as her face became a mixture of shock and happiness at the sight of her nephew. Her expression quickly morphed into one of suspicion as she spied Caleb. They couldn't have got many visitors in Riverwood.

"What happened? And who is this?" She asked sharply, as Alvor had.

"A friend," he sighed as he sat down at the table. "I'll tell you both what happened."

Once they were all seated, Hadvar began his tale, parts of which Caleb augmented and added to, from the capture of the supposed rebels to Helgen, and the dragon attack. At that part of the story, Sigrid gasped and clutched at her heart, but Alvor had the temerity to laugh.

"Have you been hitting the mead, boy?"

"It was there," Caleb interjected. "I saw it, everyone at Helgen did, though few lived to tell the tale."

His hands balled into fists as he recalled the sickening sights of the burnt bodies, the decimated village, the grieving widows and orphans.

"Last we saw, it was heading north. Here," Hadvar said grimly.

Alvor exhaled. "By the Gods! If there is a dragon lurking around these parts, Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun needs to know." He looked at the two young men pointedly as he spoke.

"Yes Uncle," Hadvar said testily. "But we've had a long trip. I thought you could help us out, food, supplies, a place to stay."

"Yes of course, you are both welcome. But Balgruuf needs to know soon, and the sooner the better."

"I'll go now," Caleb volunteered.

All eyes on the room swivelled to look at him.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Hadvar, you can stay a while if you wish. But I'm going to leave now. I don't want to see another Helgen."

Not after the power the dragon had demonstrated there. And the moment it had chosen its arrival, right before he was to be killed…it could be a coincidence, but Caleb thought begged belief. He couldn't explain why, but he felt there was more to it.

"Thank you friend. Here, take this." Alvor handed him a knapsack. "There's food, water, coin, supplies, everything you might need. When you leave Riverwood, keep heading north, and eventually you'll see Whiterun. When you get there, keep heading up until you get to the Jarl's palace, Dragonsreach."

"I'm going to stay here, lay low for a while," Hadvar said to him as he readied to depart. "As far as I'm concerned, you've earned your pardon. If you're ever in Solitude, talk to Legate Rikke in Castle Dour to join the Legion. I'd be willing to vouch for you."

"I'll think about it," he muttered as he left.

"Divines guide you."

Caleb wandered out of Riverwood, following the paved path north as Alvor had instructed, marvelling at the mess he was in now. But he didn't want to see another town massacred. The people he needed to be warned.

He traversed the plains of the foreign country, the beauty of the blue sky, glistening lakes the colour of sapphire, the scenery alive with wildlife of birds, deer and hares. But Caleb knew that not all animals that roamed the wilderness were docile. Skyrim was also home to frostbite spiders, bears, wolves and trolls. When had had been travelling for three hours from Riverwood, he had been attacked by a band of wolves.

In the plains, two more hours later, bandits had sprung from nowhere and everywhere. He was starting to feel like he was leaving a trail of bodies behind him.

The sun had risen three times before he reached Whiterun. Across a grassy plain fractured by small ponds and streams stood the proud towering city of Whiterun, perched on a cairn of stones, the three layers of the city prominent from his viewpoint. It was separated into three districts, the first one was the Plain District, home to the shops and market stalls. The second was the residential Wind District, where the majority of citizens lived, including the legendary Companions. The pinnacle of the city was the Cloud District, dominated by Dragonsreach.

"Hold traveller!" A guard barked as he approached the city gates. "Cities closed because of the dragons, official business only."

"I've come from Helgen, with news about the dragon attack," Caleb protested.

"Fine, you may enter, but we'll be keeping an eye on you," he said, unlocking the gate, opening unto him he city of Whiterun.


	9. Chapter 9

**Yeah, I know I changed a little of the dialogue because of bad memory/creative mind LOL! Hope you still enjoy it ;)**

Chapter 9

'_It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sounds of trumpets'- Voltaire_

Athena had only killed one person before in her life: her other, when she haemorrhaged to death birthing her. And even, it's not like she could have prevented that in anyway. So as she stood there, weapon in hand, preparing to storm a fortress full of Imperial soldiers thirsting for her blood, she felt apprehensive to say the least. All she could think about in those harrowing moments of waiting was that she would have to kill, or be killed. Perhaps she should allow herself death, but she was afraid. People said that when they died they would go to Sovngarde. But she didn't want to go. Not just yet. Her life, however meaningless, drab and hollow it sometimes can be, was all she had left, ironically enough. She was determined not to let the bitter Gods have this victory: she would find something to live for.

And so she waited with this new-found vigour that fuelled her resolution, waiting for those two words that would propel them all to victory or Sovngarde.

"FOR SKYRIM!" Galmor roared.

On cue, all Stormcloaks assembled charged forth with gusto, weapons held forefront flashing in the winter sun, roaring. The clamour caught the attention of the Imperials manning the walls, and brought down upon them a string of curses and volley of arrows, all of which fell harmlessly into the surrounding snow.

The erected barricade made from bits of sharpened wood was torn at until it fell into pieces of kindling, marking the beginning of the real battle.

As steel flashed, blood was spilt in incriminating puddles of crimson as the two sides rained down on one another. The confusion made it impossible to discern the winning side.

Athena found herself swept in the middle of the chaos, with blood on her daggers, and bodies at her feet. She couldn't recall killing those two Imperials. Nor was she aware as her arms brought her daggers to the fore to guard her from an axe to her skull. She parried, struck, parried, struck, the dance continued as such. Until she blocked with one dagger, pierced the other through his neck. She spun, smashing the pommel into another's eye-socket. He staggered and screamed, clutching the injured sight organ that spewed blood onto his fingers. Her other blade ripped through his chest, armor flesh and all, ending his life in a flourish of a pirouette accompanied with a scarlet spray.

The Imperials broke. The majority having been killed, the few survivors began running like cowards from the fighting. Three loosed arrows cut down the deserters, and once it was done with the Stormcloaks began revelling in their victory.

She looked around at the carnage. Blood, bodies and entrails were littered everywhere. Now, after the battle, swamped by all the blood and gore, she felt slightly nauseated.

"Well done girl!" Galmor cried, clapping on meaty hand on her shoulder. "Go tell Ulfric about our victory here today!"

She nodded mutely, finding herself unable to use her voice.

"And for the Gods sake, smile once in a while, girl! Nothing wrong with ridding Skyrim of its pest problem."

Athena stared at the man, shocked of his disregard for the dead. Imperial or Stormcloak, they were still people, _humans_.

"Got something to say, bastard?"

"No. Nothing at all," she replied meekly.

"Good. Get going."

She turned away, feeling repulsed, the din of the Stormcloaks celebrating ringing in her ears. Alone, she made her way back to Windhelm.

"We've been successful, father," she said, bowing her head.

"Excellent. I'll send men to garrison the fort, and you are to join a small compliment of soldiers to the next fort, Hraggstad, north-west of Solitude."

"N-now father?" She had the temerity to ask. Athena felt in dire need of rest.

"Of course now," he snapped. "Go, and for Talos's sake, don't mess this up!"

She bowed stiffly, more intimidated than irked, and left, aware of his eyes burning into the back of her skull.

Whiterun was simplistically beautiful. Rural greenery living in harmony with simple cottages, general stores and markets, milling with citizens. Looming above all the joviality of the quaint city was Dragonsreach, a towering, imposing structure of dark thick stone that threw a gargantuan shadow in the evening sun. He had heard it was given its name when Olaf One-Eye captured the dragon Numinex. But now it was the abode of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.

Caleb ascended through Whiterun until he arrived at the Jarl's palace entrance, two heavy, wooden doors. The guards glanced at him with suspicion, but did not stop him as he entered.

The palace seemed to dwarf all other buildings he had crossed. A flight of stairs led into a room that served as both the dining area and the Jarl's throne room. It could easily fit in at least three of the average houses in Whiterun in this one chamber.

As he approached, the heat rising from the hearth in the centre distorted his view of the Jarl, lounged in his throne, enthralled in conversation with two others. One a balding man with the dark skin if Hammerfell dresses in blue finery robes, the other a female dark elf in leather armor, a sword sheathed in her back.

As Caleb approached, the discussion ceased as the Jarl held up his hand for silence.

"I see we have a visitor," he spoke. "State your name and business, traveller."

"My name is Caleb, my Jarl," he replied respectfully. "And I have come from Helgen, with news of the dragon attack."

The Jarl and female warrior exchanged a glance, the former mildly surprised, the latter somewhat sceptical.

"Well, what news do you bring?"

"The dragon appeared at the execution taking place in Helgen, and last I saw it was flying north. This direction."

The news seemed to strike them all heavily, and the Jarl and elf shared a look of concern.

"I see." The Jarl looked to the man in finery. "What say you to that, Proventus? Are we to trust in the strength of our walls against a dragon?"

The man looked slightly irked, but gave no reply.

"I thank you for bringing me this news. You've acted on initiative and done my city a service. But there is something more you could do for me and my people."

"Which is?" Caleb asked, prompting him for details.

"Speak to my court wizard, Farengar Secret-Fire. He can supply you with the details. Irileth, take our new friend to him."

"Yes, my Jarl!" She declared piously, then beckoned for him to follow him to a room east that directly adjoined the Jarl's throne room.

There was a man, presumably Farengar Secret-Fire, was dressed in blue robes and a hood that shrouded his face, poring over numerous open books and unfurled scrolls at once.

"Farengar. I believe I found someone who can help you with your…dragon project."

"Dragon project?" He reiterated, confused. "Ah yes, you must be referring to my research into the dragons! What I need someone to do is to find something for me. And what I mean by find something for me is to delve into a dangerous ruin for something that may or may not be there."

"What exactly is it I'm supposed to be finding?" He asked.

"A dragonstone. I learnt from a source—a reliable source that there may be one in Bleak Falls Barrow, a ruin close to a miserable little village named Riverwood."

"Riverwood? I've been there," Caleb said, recalling the quaint village he first travelled to after Helgen.

"Excellent! If you return there, some of the locals should be able to point you in the right direction."

"Fine," Caleb acquiesced. "I'll see if I can retrieve this dragonstone for you."

"Good, good!" Farengar cried excitedly. "I look forward to your return! And before I forget, be careful in Bleak Falls Barrow. The place is crawling with bandits—and worse."

Caleb didn't deign to clash with bandits and other foes, but struck out for Bleak Falls Barrow, as he had so promised. Out on the city perimeter, he managed to hire a carriage to Riverwood. On the journey back, looming on the lip of a mountain, he saw it: spiked archers heralding the sight of the old temple, a miserable construction of metal and black stone that stood out on the backdrop of white snow. The wind that blew down from there seemed to carry aloft thousands of voices of the fallen that seemed to whisper to him warnings to stay away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Wow, this chapter took longer than I intended, I apologise. But between the new series of Game of Thrones, a mountain-sized amount of English Lit work and playing the new Tomb Raider I just haven't found the time. Hopefully the size of this chapter makes up for it!**

Chapter 10

' "_Can a man still be brave is he's afraid?"_

"_That is the only time a man can be brave." '- Bran and Ned Stark, A Game of Thrones_

Bleak Falls Barrow became more oppressive and foreboding as he drew nearer to it. The wind howling through the heights and his footfalls in the snow were the only noises. It was otherwise silent, the kind of silence that was created a false pretence of another presence. Which would hardly be surprising, given the warning Farengar had given him and the place itself. It was perfect for an ambush.

He crouched low in the shelter of one of the arches, and chanced a peek at the surrounding exterior of the ruin. Only stillness. Only silence. He remained for a few more seconds, then considered it safe, but still remained cautious as he approached the metal doors of the ruins. They were already slightly ajar, never a good sign.

Caleb opened it slowly, and entered trepidatiously. The ruin was as can be expected: completely dilapidated with a caved-in ceiling barley held aloft by crumbling pillars, allowing through slight shafts of sunlight that illuminated a room blanketed in dust, dirt and debris. Strewn across the floor were a few skeever corpses. He could tell they were recently killed by the blood still dripping from their bodies.

A small camp had been erected further in, with a fire in the spit-roasting one of the killed skeevers, and two bedrolls on either side. Two people basked in the warm orange glow wearing ragged armor sloppily made by sewing together scraps of leather and animal hide. Caleb gazed upon the unsuspecting couple before he walked out openly, making his presence known. As he expected, they reached for their weapons. It was too much hope that there would be no conflict.

The man reached for his blade and the woman began nocking an arrow with shaking hands. Caleb blacked the sword attack, the swords clashing and scraping as they pushed back on one another, trying to gain the advantage. They both broke apart, and an arrow whistled between them, clattering harmlessly off one of the pillars. Caleb's gaze was drawn to the woman at this instant, allowing the man the opportunity to smash the pommel of his sword into his face.

His nerves exploded in pain, blinding him. Blood poured from his injured nose and he could not see through the pain. He staggered back from the force of the blow and to avoid a far more severe injury. He could hear the sound of a bow string being pulled back and he managed to stagger behind a pillar to take cover from the arrow. His sight began returning slowly, the white fading to the gloom of the ruin, but the pain remained, a throbbing reminder of his folly.

Caleb pushed himself from off the pillar and launched himself forward, meeting the male bandit in open combat. His sword glanced harmlessly off his once, twice, thrice, defending easily from all angles. Caleb could not find one opening to exploit.

he retreated back from another arrow. It was dangerous with both of them. One would have to die, now.

He kicked the man in the abdomen, causing him to retreat a few steps and double over but still blocked the sword stroke that would have otherwise severed his neck. He drove at the man's steel again and again until his sword-arm weakened, and betrayed him, his own weapon tasting his blood. He slumped forward, sword buried in his neck.

Caleb started for the remaining bandit. She backed away, loosing another arrow, which he easily strafed away from. until the proximity forced her to pull a dagger from a small sheath on the small of her back. But it was too late. Caleb seized the hand that held her dagger, and plunged his sword straight through her heart, granting her the mercy of a quick, clean death.

He sheathed his sword spattered with the blood and gore of the bandits and proceeded, no longer fearing other combat he would be locked in.

He followed the claustrophobic corridors illuminated by torch sconces that seemed to allow slope downwards slightly, forcing him into the bowels of the ruin that ran underground. The path led him to a rotten wooden staircase creaked faintly under his weight. As he descended the spiral stairs, an odd, high-pithed hissing slithered through the air. A second later his arm was struck with sharp stabbing pain.

He cried in pain as the horrid skeever sunk its teeth into his forearm. He grabbed hold of the scrawny vermin, and ripped it free of him and threw it away in disgust.

It hit the wall with a gentle thud, righted itself and then unleashed shrill screech at impossible volume for a creature of its stature, revealing rows of sharpened rotted teeth. It leapt once more, aiming for his face.

Caleb easily evaded it, then slashed the skeever across its midriff, that completely split the creature in two, innards and blood spilling onto the floor, its life ending with a pitiable squawk. He examined his arm to see the foul creature had left two bleeding punctures on his arm. He wrapped the bite marks with bandages to staunch the bleeding, prayed he wouldn't contract an infection and proceeded further.

The cobwebs thickened as he advanced through Bleak Falls Barrow, choking the interior of the structure and hanging like grotesque curtains from the ceiling. Eventually it became so dense he could no longer proceed until he expulsed fire to dissipate the blockage.

The room that was hidden behind it was sticky with spider-webs and had incomplete bodies cocooned in the substance littered the floor. In the centre of the room, descending to the ground from a thin silken thread was a gargantuan spider, larger than a horse. Its thick hide was a dark brown hue, covered in coarse hair, and two huge red pincers jutted out from its face beneath three black eyes.

It lunged towards him with frightful speed for its physique. Caleb rolled away and it landed a few feet behind him with a thud.

He straightened as the spider righted itself from its clumsy fall, then snapped at him with its pincers. He evaded easily, and he struck its tough hide with his sword. The spider ignored the minimal blood-drawn from the nick and charged for him again. Thus the dance continued in this frustrating fashion before the beast changed tactics. It fired a concentrated globule of web at him. Caleb dodged, and then struck it once more with his sword, to little avail.

The creature caught it between its pincers, ripped it from his hands and tossed it aside. He switched to magic, expelling a stream of flames from its hands, which only served to keep it at bay. He desperately began scrabbling for his sword whilst the barrier of fire separated them. On the instant he felt the pommel, he ceased the spell to grasp the swords in both hands. And that was his folly.

The spider seized the chance and knocked him to the ground, pinning him down, pincers against his chest.

He seized them, struggling to keep them from tearing open his chest and ripping out his heart. The mandibles opened and closed in quick procession and increased its pressure. The muscles in his arms began to protest against the sudden change in force, beginning to shake slightly under the weight.

He sent magicka into his hands, channelling them into a spell, encasing his hands in lightening. It shrieked and skittered back in response, thrashing pitifully against the pain. He strided toward it, sword in hand, and plunged it betwixt it pincers, drawing out green blood.

"Help me, please!" A voice resounded through the spider's lair.

To the north, a man was completely caught in web, his body held aloft by the sticky trap.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Caleb asked as he approached the man. He couldn't trust a person that dwelt in such ruins. And with his mismatched armor, he could very well be a bandit.

"What does is it matter?" He cried defensively. "Just cut me free!"

"Fine, fine. Here." He said, as he began to cut away at the tacky sunstance.

The man landed heavily on his feet, then without word or warning, bolted.

"Hey, wait!" Caleb yelled after him.

He paid no heed, so he gave chase, following him out of the nest, through the narrow passages, and into a room filled with rotted corpses.

There he saw a sight he had never thought possible. He had heard the rumours and tales that told of the walking dead in ancient Nord ruins that would slay anyone that stepped foot within their resting place. Never had he thought them true. But here it was, a body, its skin shrivelled and pulled taut over its bone structure, parts of its flesh missing to reveal its skeleton underneath.

Without a flicker in expression or a moment's hesitation, it seized hold of the man and held his face close to its own. He whimpered, struggled, yelled "Yield! Yield!", but it offered no mercy, and ran him through, before throwing him onto the ground, where he lay, sputtering and sobbing in his final moments.

The creature then turned to Caleb, with one eye glowing, one socket empty.


	11. Chapter 11

**A big thank you to all those who have favourited and followed; it means a lot to me xx**

**And remember: reviews and/or constructive criticism are still and always will be welcome (but no flames, please!) :)**

Chapter 11

'_Living well is the best revenge'- Anon _

More emerged, breaking out from coffins, emerging from supposed eternal slumbers, brandishing weapons, missing chunks of fleshes or whole appendages. One dragged itself forth with its arms, missing both its legs.

He retreated a few steps, an ice spell primed in his left hand, a sword in his right, readying himself for the onslaught.

They drew closer, and he charged.

His blade bit into the torso of one, he then twisted it and pulled it free. As it fell, one was revealed standing behind it, axe held fore. Caleb dodged backwards, the awe swiping the air inches before his face, lopping off a lock of dark hair.

The ice spell he fired struck its chest, and it expanded across the better part of its torso, freezing it. A strike with his sword caused it to shatter into a thousand frozen scarlet pieces.

He spun to block one attack, parried another and ducked to avoid a third that sliced open the neck of its undead brethren. He hacked the legs off the kinslayer then buried his sword into its chest.

He removed it instantaneously and striked at another behind him. It blocked his three consecutive attacks and he retaliated by freezing its sword arm, pierced it through the middle of its torso and loosed his sword through its right shoulder.

"FUS RO DAH!" The three words roared by an ungodly voice hit him with kinetic force with the force of a battering ram, thrusting him into the air and careening into the wall opposite.

His head exploded with pain. It blinded him, the world turned white. He grasped his head; his skull felt ready to split asunder.

A sadistic, grisly chuckle sounded from above him, and marginally restored his senses. He held his sword above his head, and felt steel impact upon steel.

Through his hazed vision, he saw another walking corpse, but this one wore plain but sophisticated steel plate armor with not a speck of dirt upon it, and roundels upon its' shoulder in the shape of dragon heads, adorned with horns and individually carved teeth and all. A helm was worn atop his head the shaded its eyes and upper section of its nose, but the eyes were still visible, blue and icy. Cold, unfeeling, dead.

Steel kissed steel once more as the creature struck again, forcing him further back, his spine pressed against the stone wall. He evaded to the left, and the corpse's sword screeched against the stone, the noise resounded throughout the entire crypt.

Caleb seized the opening he spied and slashed at its exposed spine. It fell to the ground, craning its neck at an impossible angle to look up at him, growling and gnashing its teeth. Caleb drove his sword through its skull, ending the grisly sight.

He sheathed his gore-stained blade and wiped away some of the blood on his face with a shaking hand. The same hand he placed on his injured skull and pooled into it healing magic, mending the small fracture and soothing the pain.

He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath and collect his thoughts, despite his ardent desire to be away from the sights that currently surrounded him. But in the midst of the carnage, something glimmered and glistened in the light of the torch sconces. Something golden.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a solid golden ornament, in the shape of a claw, complete with three talons.

As he examined it, he spotted on the back of it, running down in a vertical line, three etchings of different animals. The top one was a bear, below that a moth, and the third an owl. It was a curious device that may serve no purpose at all; it could just be an ornate decoration. Caleb held onto contraption, as it may be worth a good amount of gold which would prove useful in the days to come undoubtedly.

He proceeded through the corridors, descended down a short flight of stairs and came to a wall at the bottom that blocked the passage. And on it was a golden circle with a cluster of three holes, and above it three stone rings displaying a moth at the top, owl in the centre and bear at the bottom. It was connected to the claw he just found! It had to be!

The stone rings could be rotated; hence he changed them to match the order displayed on the claw. The moment he had changed them, the most outer two rotated to display the owl as the bottom one did, and the wall slowly lowered into the ground.

Behind it was a large cavernous room with a waterfall weeping into a base of water cornered off by the stone floor that dominated the ground. The water trickled down the walls, dripping into the patches of water and onto the ground, making it slippery. Moss and fungus grew one these dampened walls, some species of mushroom glowing a ghostly blue colour. No torch sconce offered light; it remained dark, made discernible only by the light afforded by the miniature shafts of light that filtered through gaps in the ceiling. At his intrusion, a colony of bats flew down from the ceiling and away.

He strode for the far-end of the room where there was a chest in front of a large, semi-circular shaped wall inscribed with a multitude of strange runes that looked like an alien language. But what captivated him the most was that three of these runes glowed, pulsed with light.

Compelled by curiosity, he approached these glimmering runes and then the light manifested and coalesced, coming away from the runes and being sucked into Caleb's body. The light filled his mind, and when it had completely diminished, he heard a voice in his mind, tinged with that of another, almost demonic, that uttered one word: "Fus!"

_Fus_… he pondered the word, unable to discern what it translated in to, why it had glowed, and why had he absorbed it?

He opened the chest, to see a large slab of stone inscribed with similar runes to that of the large room. He took it, and started on his way to the exit to return to Whiterun, where he would hopefully find some answers.

Fire and smoke had engulfed the entire small village, the crackling of the flames mixing in the air with cries and screams. Caleb could scarcely believe it. Riverwood had always been a peaceful village last he had been here. But now it was in shambles, reeking of acrid smoke and burning bodies.

_By the divines, what has happened here? _He thought as he slowly approached the wrecked village. _Dragons?_

As he ambled through in a state of disbelief and shock, he spotted a small group of people fleeing, wearing blue fabric over brown quilted leather armor and beige-coloured breeches. Stormcloaks. Before he could give chase, however, the flames spread and blocked the passage to them. He turned his attention back to the burning and bleeding village.

"Caleb…" a voice choked out.

He turned towards where the voice came from.

A man lay prostrate on the ground, his body mauled by fire and weapons, but it was recognisable as Hadvar.

"Hadvar!" He cried and dropped on his knees beside him.

He coughed weakly, blood bubbling at the side of his mouth. "You—you're here. You've returned."

"A little late though, friend," he said somberly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't get here earlier."

Hadvar weakly grabbed one of his arms. "It's not too late, though, my friend, for **vengeance**. Join the Imperial, Caleb, avenge and immortalize those that died here today."

Caleb stared down at his broken and beaten friend. And when he did he saw his failure staring back at him.

"I will. I'll join the Imperial Legion, and take the fight to the Stormcloaks," He found himself saying.

"Thank you, friend." His hand slipped from his arm, and his eyes closed. And the next morning, when the village was recovering and identifying and mourning their dead, Hadvar was fed once more to the fire. Caleb saw Alvor and Sigrid attend the funeral, with some others, and he could feel Hadvar's uncle and aunt's accusing eyes on him. He had failed their nephew.

After the funeral, he made for Whiterun, his heart heavy. Perhaps he should've gone to Alvor and Sigrid to offer what little comfort he could. But instead he followed the new-found resolve and went straight for Dragonsreach in Whiterun.

He made camp half-way through his journey, and gloomily stared into the fire, that brought back unwelcome mirages of Riverwood burning.

He sighed and brought forward the flames to his hand, but didn't release it. He retained it at his palm, until it launched itself away, hitting a rock several feet away in the form of a small bolt rather than a stream of flames, this more concentrated fire spell having more intensified heat. Intrigued, he repeated the spell and gained the same result. He then summoned the blot in between both of his hands, creating an even more potent spell.

He felt a twinge of surprise and happiness at teaching himself a new spell. A fire-bolt. It couldn't save Hadvar, but perhaps it could save others.

The following afternoon he arrived in Whiterun, to present the Dragonstone to Farengar. He, however, was not alone. There was a middle aged woman with him, her greying blonde hair tied back into a low ponytail. Despite her age, she dressed as a warrior-maiden, with a suit of chainmail under a suit of boiled-leather and a sword on her hip.

"You see?" He was saying to her. "The terminology is clearly first-era or even earlier. I'm convinced this is the copy of a much older text, perhaps dating just after the dragon war. If so I could use this to cross-reference the names with much later texts."

"Good, I'm glad you're making progress," said the warrior-maid, "My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."

"Oh, have no fear!" Said Farengar dismissively. "The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research."

"Time is running Farengar don't forget. This isn't some theoretical question, Dragons have come back," The woman responded sharply.

"Yes, don't worry. Though the chance to see a real dragon up close would be tremendously valuable-"

Caleb cleared his throat, deciding he longer wanted to stand on ceremony waiting for their attention as a child would his elders.

"Hm?" Farengar turned his attention to Caleb. "Ah, yes, the Jarl's protégé! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn't die, it seems!"

"No, but a fore-warning of the spider and corpses would have been appreciated," Caleb replied frostily.

"Walking corpses? Ah, you mean the draugr?" He chuckled nervously. "I didn't think they would be a trouble to someone of your standing, and I was right! But do you have the Dragonstone?"

He begrudgingly presented the aloof man with the tablet.

"The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow!" He exclaimed, greedily snatching the artefact from his hands. "Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."

"So what now?" He asked him bluntly.

"My… associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location by means she has so far declined to share with me. You were right after all." He said to the woman.

"You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that?" She asked with a twinkle in here eye. "Nice work. Just send me a copy when you-"

"Farengar!" A voice cried.

"Irileth?" Farengar questioned as the elven warrior-maid ran to the room.

"You are to come at once. And you, too, Imperial. A dragon has been sighted near by."


	12. Chapter 12

**Once more, feedback would be appreciated guys. As a novice writer, it is not only valued, but necessary :P**

Chapter 12

'_You learn to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny it is to invite madness. To accept is to control' –Megan Chance, The Spiritualist_

Athena ran with them, feeling sick to her stomach. When the Stormcloaks made camp, she dry-wretched after supper, the sight of the sacked village still fresh in her mind. Children crying in front of their burning houses, men slain, women raped. It had been horrible.

"Such is the way of war," Galmor had told her in a pathetic attempt to console her. But it had done little to assuage her doubt, and for her to be rid of the nightmares.

Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the horrible images in her mind. Including herself, setting a torch to a blacksmith's house. An Imperial man grabbed hold of her, shook her, roared at her and unsheathed his sword. So she gave him a push, a hard shove into the flames. He had thrashed around, his whole person consumed in flames. And then she ran.

Her father had told her sacking villages was all part of the war stratagem. It would bring Jarl Balgruuf's confidence down; give him pause to question his neutrality. Athena thought it was more like to bring down the Jarl's ire down onto him and drive him to throw in his lot with General Tullius. But she held her tongue and did as she was bid. And now she did regret it.

They arrived at Windhelm the next day, and she reported straight to her father with the news.

"Good," he said with a satisfied nod. "I want you to do something else, now. Deliver this axe to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun."

He handed her a simple steel axe, so heavy she could barely hold it with both hands.

"An axe?" She repeated, dumbfounded, as she examined the simple piece of weaponry.

"Yes," he snapped impatiently. "Give the man my axe. If he keeps the axe, all is well between us. But if he returns the axe…"

"He is our foe?"

"Just so, he said, nodding. "Deliver my message. And be swift."

She heaved the weapon on her back with some difficulty and left straight away, exhausted though she was. She boarded the carriage across the bridge outside of the city, thrusting the man a coin purse containing twenty septims and sat on the back, the weapon feeling heavier as she drew nearer the city.

The dragon roared and belched flames. Caleb dived behind a section of the ruined watchtower to avoid the fire. Caleb chanced to loose a firebolt at the ginormous beast, but it barely affected it.

Caleb attempted the same trick he had used to create the firebolt with his frost spell, and to his pleasure it formed a large spike made of ice, the tore into one of the beasts' wings.

The dragon snapped at one of Whiterun's guards, catching him between its jaws and thrashing him about as though that unfortunate archer were its play-thing. The dragon threw the torn and bloody man across the field carelessly.

Some guards lost their nerve at the sight. Their arms trembled, loosing premature or poorly aimed arrows, retreating slowly from the beast.

"Steady, men!" Irileth roared. "Hold your ground, you are men of Skyrim! You can bring this beast down!"

Caleb loosed another ice spike that struck its side. It reared its horned head back on impact, grumbling in pain, then took off into the air. Loosed arrows fell back down onto the earth, not reaching the height of the winged monster.

It circled around the sky hundreds of feet above the watchtower, then suddenly dropped, plummeting down to the ground where they stood. The creature swooped down and flew right over their heads, causing them to drop to the ground to avoid its talons. Another guard, though, was plucked from the ground and carried off into the air. Once it soared at a lofty height once more, he was dropped from its claw to the ground. When he hit the ground, his skeletal frame caved in from the impact, reducing his body to a bloody pulp.

The dragon hovered in the air before them, and spewed flames once more, sending them all scattering to evade its flame-breath. Two men whilst running for cover caught on fire, and died in a blaze screaming in agony. The sight and smell of them burning was horrifying.

Irileth and the remaining guards ran towards the beast once its fire-breath had ceased, charging it with swords. Its uninjured wing was struck by a sword, and it retaliated by swiping at the man with his claw, sawing him near in half, his entrails spilling out from the deep wound.

Three more arrows that connected with its left wing, neck and eye were sufficient enough to bring it down to the ground, but yet it lived. Caleb rushed forth sword in hand and severed the creatures head from its neck with three blows, each drenching him in foul-smelling blood that made his stomach stir. The dragon fell limp to the ground with one final growl of defiance. Once it had ceased living and moving, its whole body began to glow, and the scales disintegrated, falling away from its skeleton and feeding the growing light, that became drawn to him.

Caleb watched in amazement as it was absorbed completely into his body, it was a terrible yet euphoric feeling; his body was on fire yet the power he absorbed was like a tidal wave of ice water coursing through him, cleansing and reviving his body, and filling it with knowledge and power.

Then it all subsided, as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only a faint hum of energy resounding through his blood.

"By the divines!" One guard gasped, "You're Dragonborn!"

"Dragonborn?" He enquired, still trying to register what had happened himself.

"Dragonborn. Means you can absorb the souls of slain dragons, and can 'Shout' like the Greybeards can. Such a hero hasn't been around since old Tiber Septim! So can you? Shout, that is."

"I… I'm not sure," he answered truthfully.

For an unknown reason, he recalled the word he had learned in Bleak Falls Barrow, Fus.

He recalled that word, and the power that had surged through him when he had absorbed the soul of the slain dragon.

"FUS!" He roared, but it was not just his voice alone, another shouted with him, an inhuman echo. Visible blue energy was released with the word that near knocked some of the men off balance.

"That was a shout!" Another cried in amazement.

All survivors gathered around, wearing expressions of shock, awe and disbelief. 'Dragonborn' was the word on each of their lips.

"What do you thunk about the, Housecarl?" One of them asked Irileth, "You've been rather quiet."

"I think you'd all be better to not flap your gums on matters you don't understand. Here is a dead dragon. That I understand."

"Hey now, Housecarl. These are our sacred traditions, passed down through the centuries."

"I don't need some mythical Dragonborn. Anyone who can slay a dragon is good enough for me," she snapped bluntly.

Caleb heeded her callousness none; he was still swaddled in the revelation that had just occurred. He was _Dragonborn_, the same as heroes of ancient stories and lore revered by the Nords.

"You—Dragonborn," she drawled, "Report back to Jarl Balgruuf ahead of us. Me and my men will remain to round-up survivors and tend to the injured."

"Yes, Housecarl," he replied, using her title in mocking respect in retaliation to her blatant disregard toward him.

She narrowed her red eyes but did not respond. With an imperious wave of her hand, the small compliment of her guard gallivanted after her, and Caleb began his return to Whiterun, meandering across the plains of Whiterun Hold, his mind brimming with questions, wonders and thoughts.

"DO-VAH-KIIN!" A sky-shattering shout bellowed by multiple voices resounded through the earth, so loud it shook the very ground and made the blades of the grass ripple like ocean waves.

He glanced at his surroundings for the source of the sound, alarmed, but saw only emptiness.

"You've returned," Jarl Balgruuf said with an expression of amiable surprise. "What news do you bring?"

"The dragon is dead," Caleb informed him grimly. "A lot of good men perished in the attempt."

"They will be remembered," The Jarl responded solemnly. "But I sense there's more to it than that."

He gave him a fixing look with his ice-blue eyes, piercing through him, gauging him for the information.

"The men… when the dragon was felled…," Caleb struggled to find the words. Hearing them with his own voice would make it sound so frivolous. "I may be Dragonborn."

The Jarl's eyebrows near disappeared near into his hairline. "Oh? Could it be true? What do you know of the Dragonborn?"

"I don't know much of what the legends state about these heroes, but I… absorbed a sort of power from the body of the dragon. And I could 'shout' as the Greybeards do."

"So you really are Dragonborn," he said, his voice tinted with awe. "It makes sense now. That sound before… the Greybeards summoned you. Didn't you hear them shout 'Dovahkiin'?"

"Yes, I did hear that. That was the Greybeards?"

"Yes. They live in seclusion, in High Hrothgar, to the east of here on the peak of the Throat of the World. They are not to be ignored." He added, stressing the sentence.

"What would they have of me?" Caleb asked warily.

"That is between you and the Greybeards, and I'd rather keep it that way. But onto different matters: you have done my city a great service, Dragonborn, and I allow you to purchase property in my city. We would be honoured to have you living in Whiterun. But the problem of Riverwood still exists. Ulfric Stormcloak sacked one of my villages, slaughtered my people. I owe my allegiance to the Imperial Legion. But what of you, friend? Imperial or Stormcloak? Or neither?"

"After I witnessed Riverwood burn, and my friend fall victim to the turn cloaks, I would join the Legion," he said with finality.

"Then you must speak with Legate Rikke in Castle Dour in Solitude. Thank you, once more Dragonborn. You are no Nord, but you have proven yourself a true son of Skyrim."


	13. Chapter 13

**I would like to give a shout-out to my friend James for the continued support he has given me. You're the best, man!**

Chapter 13

'_The soldier's main enemy is not the opposing soldier, but his own commander' –Ramman Kenoun _

"You must be either very bold or very foolish to deliver me such a message, girl, after what you and your traitor friends have done," hissed the Jarl, as she presented him with the axe. He need only glance at her garb to know what side she fought with. And the Jarl wasn't a blind man. He knew who the guilty party was for setting torch to one of the minor villages in his hold. That much was clear in the tone he spoke to her with, and the glare he regarded her with.

"Do you have a reply to the message? Milord," she asked him politely. It would serve no good to give him cause to draw his steel.

"I do," he replied angrily, handing her back the axe hilt-first. "You had my answer the moment you sacked Riverwood. Take this back toy your father, girl."

"Y-yes," she said meekly, accepting the proffered weapon. She decided not to question how he knew Ulfric and Athena's kinship.

"Jarl Balgruuf, that girl is a Stormcloak," the elven warrior-maid growled.

"I am aware, Irileth," he answered impatiently.

"She should be thrown in the dungeons," she snarled.

"No. I want Ulfric to receive my answer."

Irileth's mouth tightened. "As you wish."

_No different to Windhelm_, she though bitterly. _Still be judged and hated for existing._

Her blood cursed her.

She slung the axe back on her back, and hastily left. She was eager to be away from here, from all the hatred, even though she deserved their disdain, and more. Athena had still been hopeful for peace, for a truce, until this point. The hatred was too deep, the resentment nursed for too long. Neither side was willing to set aside their vendetta now, it was too late. She realised as she made her way down the winding city that she was trapped in this limbo. She would be forced to continue to kill people and sack villages and make widows and orphans.

There was an old phrase about killing, that it becomes easier. But how was that better?

He was torn between fulfilling his duty as Dragonborn, and as a human. In the end, he chose the latter and went to Solitude, taking the carriage from Whiterun to Solitude, the famous capital of Skyrim in the north-western section of the country. It took near a week to get there, and when her finally arrived he was weary and running low on supplies. His food source was whittled down to two rashers of salted ham, a crust of stale bread and just under quarter of a cheese wheel. His skin of water had dwindled to a mere mouthful of liquid left. It was fortunate they had reached the city now; another couple of days would see him rationing food and thirsty.

Though he was halted by a guard that gruffly questioned his business, which Caleb had come to consider as the standard greeting in Skyrim for outsiders, Solitude seemed a city that would see to his needs.

It was walled in by tall, thick grey stone walls that flew the banners of the Imperial Legion, a red dragon complete with wings and tail on a field of black, and the entire city teetered on the edge of a cliff that overlooked the Solitude docks. Inside it was filled with buildings made of bleak grey mortar and a public execution was taking place during his arrival. A man whom had held open the gate after Ulfric had killed Torygg had been put to the executioners axe to the noise of jeers and insults from the spectators. A small cheer sounded from the crowd as his head went rolling. It wasn't the best first-impression a city could give.

Caleb followed a citizen's directions up some inclines carved out onto the edge of a stone wall that led to Castle Dour, given by Solitude's Jarl Elisif the Fair to the Imperial Legion. The Jarl herself resided in the Blue Palace to the north, at the very head of the city.

The guards standing sentinel to the stronghold gave him curious looks as he passed through the doors but didn't halt his entry. But once inside a sword was pointed to his chest.

"State your name and business!" Barked a deep yet decidedly female voice.

She was a fierce hardy woman, a Nord he would wager, with hair the colour of straw, shoulder length but swept harshly back from her face, which was as hard as stone. There were some indents on her forehead and laugh lines, though a woman as stern-looking as her didn't seem one wont to laugh.

She wore a heavy steel breast-plate that bared most of her arms that were bound in muscle than most women's were, over boiled leather in the colours of the Imperial Legion.

"My name's Caleb," he responded, holding his arms up to show he intended no harm. "I've come to join the Legion."

"Let him through, Legate," a weary voice sounded from the adjacent room.

"Yes, General Tullius!" The woman declared piously, sheathing her sound and motioning for him to follow.

General Tullius awaited in the room she led him to, poring over a map pocked with red and blue flags, obviously symbolising the two different sides of the war. There was an even number of each blemishing the surface of Skyrim.

The General himself was an Imperial man from Cyrodiil: Caleb recognised him as a fellow country-man near instantly. He was an aging man with a head full of cropped hair that the years had tarnished grey. He himself wore a leather breast-plate ornately decorated with the symbol of the Imperial Legion with wing-like symbols descending down on the piece of armor. Under it was a simple short-sleeved silk tunic of crimson lined with gold, the skirt-piece of the armor holding a similar design: gold coloured scales over red. A sword sheathed in a brown leather scabbard silver metal-work was fixed on his hip with a belt adorned with bronze medallions.

Tullius sized him up with his grey eyes, taking in his haggard appearance and ragged armor.

"You look familiar," he mused. "Is it possible we've met?"

"I don't believe so," Caleb said slowly. He recognized his voice from somewhere. "Where you at Helgen?"

"Ah, that is it exactly!" He exclaimed, but looked marginally uncomfortable.

"I escaped Helgen, and I was free to go where I pleased. I came here to join the Legion," Caleb declared. He was still unsure that he was pardoned from his execution, and had no desire to face the chopping block.

"Well, I'm sure your being arrested was all a terrible misunderstanding," General Tullius said with a nervous chuckle.

"It certainly was terrible," Caleb said rather mockingly, too irked at the memories of the arrest to ease the man's discomfort.

"As it so happens," he said hastily, "We have a mission we were just about to send some men on. You could prove yourself worthy by accomplishing this. If you truly want to join the Legion, travel to the ruin Korvanjund with Legate Rikke and the rest of the detachment of my men."

"And what am I to do in Korvanjund?" He asked.

"Return alive, at the very least. But our primary goal is to obtain the Jagged Crown, which the Stormcloaks are also in search of. But there will be other things apart from rebels stalking about in that crypt. Return alive and I you will be a Legionnaire. Return with the crown and you will be awarded a bonus. Talos guide you." He concluded, before returning to pondering over his map.

"Come on, auxiliary," Legate Rikke said. "Get some supplies, rest, whatever you need and meet us outside of Korvanjund to the south-east. But be quick about it. The Stormcloaks are already en-route."


	14. Chapter 14

**It'd been a while, I know guys I apologise! Social and school life getting in the way, you know how it is ;)**

**I'll try to upload them more frequently, but I really can't promise anything!**

Chapter 14

'_Maw unleashing razor snow, Of dragon from the blue brought down, Births the walking winter woe, The High King in his Jagged Crown'- The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim_

He rented a room at The Winking Skeever for the night, re-stocked the following morning, a bright but cold morn, then left for Korvanjund, some ways south-east to Solitude. It was a long and cold journey, Skyrim's harsh terrain making itself known.

A severe snow-storm began not long into his journey, several inches falling in the first two hours. By the time he had reached the ruin, the other Imperials were already assembled, shivering and chattering, exposed to the cold and snow as they were.

The apex of Korvanjund had no roof; rather, it looked like an excavated hole with a narrow flight of stone stairs fixes to the wall that led down a heavy metal door that was slightly ajar. The Imperials, after walking single-file down the steps, entered the underground ruin, already inhabited, what with a camp erected near the entrance, but it had been abandoned.

As they ascended a short stairwell carved out of the clay-coloured stone floor, and at the top was a high-ceiled room with four pillars at the far end, and more stairs that tunnelled into two passages. Guarding these passages was a scant number of five Stormcloaks, against one score of Imperials.

One noticed and nudged his companion beside him, and the grabbed the bows slung on their back and nocked arrows. They were loosed, but fell too short, clattering off the ground.

The other three unsheathed their weapons and sped down to greet them with a steel grin, the archers close behind.

One loosed an arrow at an opposing bowman, the arrow burrowing into his neck, the blood bubbling at the point of entry as he sucked in his last breath.

The remaining archer tossed aside his longbow and drew his sword as the rebels fell down upon them, the Imperials swords meeting theirs.

Caleb raised his sword to block a high attack, parried another to his left shoulder, the swung for the Stormcloaks right shoulder. He deflected it easily, but another Imperial's sword slid through his chest, his blue cuirass staining crimson.

A brash young, lean rebel sprinted towards them, his sword poised towards the attacking Imperials, his homely face contorted in anger. He when to stab him straight through his chest, but Caleb quickly side-stepped him and the youth nearly sprawled onto the ground, untrained and as young as he was. Caleb hacked off his head, transforming his head into a grizzly fountain of blood.

An archer fired what could have been a killing shot at Caleb that narrowly missed his temple. He summoned a concentrated spell of ice and fired it. It pierced the man's abdomen, tearing through armor, skin and flesh, the projectile protruding from his back.

The final began to flee, his bravado lost at the sight of his felled comrades, but an arrow bolt cut short his cowardly departure.

They passed over the bodies, and one of the higher-ranking Imperial officers kicked the youngest.

Korvanjund was eerily familiar to Bleak Falls Barrow: it had the same dilapidated, neglected state, but only the layout was more open. There weren't as many narrow, claustrophobic corridors; it was mainly constructed from conjoined cavernous rooms, but with a mainly linear layout. One straight path led them into the depths of the ruin.

There was no other Stormcloaks on their path, which could either mean they all were gathered farther in, or where already on the run with the Jagged Crown, to take it back to their false King.

An odd rattling noise sounded from the next room that consisted of two levels a rickety set of wooden stairs fixated to the wall. Descending the stairs, unless his eyes were cheated, was a skeleton. It frame was completely bare, not a scrap of flesh left, nor strand of hair or splatter of blood marring its off-white bones. Even its tongue and eyes had been removed from its skull. Despite this, it still retained its wits, and approached them on its rickety legs, and swung its jagged, rusty broadsword at the gathered Imperials. All dodged the attack, lest their heads be removed.

More skeletons poured forth, a couple dozen at least. Caleb couldn't help but wonder how they were still able to walk on this earth. Whilst he had fought the draugr, most still had intact organs. Skeletons didn't have such, how could they still function, fight?

They swarmed down upon the Imperials, the clashing of numerous swords ringing out on echoing off the walls. Three arrows were loosed simultaneously by the undead creatures, two missed but the third hit one of theirs, a comely youth with long, sandy hair and an impish face. His face contorted into horror and pain as the shaft buried into his sword-arm. Julan, his name was.

"M—my arm!" He gasped, sinking to his knees as he clutched the wound.

One skeleton closed in on his wounded prey, mace in hand. The boy looked up at the approaching threat, and his blue eyes widened in horror, before squeezing shut in preparation for the blow.

Caleb charged, tackling it to the ground. Once it hit the floor, it broke apart at the joints.

He heard another rattle behind him, turned in time to parry the blow, then fire-bolted its abdomen. It too shattered as it hit the wall.

He took off the hands of the offending archer that was nocking another arrow for Julan, and it unleashed a shriek be it from pain or anger. He hacked its torso in two, but it continued hissing in its dismembered state. Caleb smashed the skull beneath his foot.

Another Imperial began cutting a path through the creatures, sawing off ones pairs of legs, then impaling its skull. He picked up the skull and threw it at a skeleton causing its own skull to fall off. He rushed at that skeleton cutting it into pieces. The Imperials followed the example cutting down the walking skeletons as the progressed forward through the ruin, swinging at a skeleton to one side then cutting down another on the opposite side. Though they were outnumbered, the skeletons were outmatched with their minimal endurance level.

The Imperials hunted and killed the remaining, tearing skull from shoulders, hacking off limbs and smashing them into pieces.

"I—I can't move my arm. It hurts!" Julan moaned.

"Walk it off, boy," ordered their Prefect, the highest-ranked officer present. "A medic will take a look at that arm—after we've retrieved the Jagged Crown and returned to Solitude."

"No need!" He said to the Prefect. Come one, son," Caleb offered a hand and helped him stand.

He placed one hand close to the wound, and pulled put the shaft. The boy's scream ripped through the entire cave, resounding off the walls and ceiling.

"Why… why did you do that!? I'm… I'm going to bleed out…" Julan cried, perspiration glistening on his skin.

He pooled healing magic into the boys' wound, and the skin and flesh knit itself back together, to Julan's great amazement.

"Nice work, auxiliary," the Prefect said somewhat derisively, "No let's get moving."

She held it in her hands. The Jagged Crown. It was an ugly thing, really, made from iron, and also bone, presumably dragon bone. Protruding from the top and either side were horns made from bone that gave it an impressive yet gruesome look. It looked ready to devour the head of any that dared to wear it.

Athena herself tried it on herself, but it was too big and completely obscured her eyes, which made her giggle. Unfortunately, that drew Galmor's attention. And his famous 'Stone-fist'.

"Oooow!" She moaned as she pulled of the crown and rubbed the injured area of her head. She inspected the crown as well, to find it miraculously unharmed, unlucky the same couldn't be said for her skull.

"It's not a toy, girl," he snarled, "It is the crown for **your** High King, not something for your amusement! Understand?"

"Yes," she whimpered, gingerly prodding where he had hit her. Bleeding and swollen, as she had predicted.

"Take it back to Ulfric. But if I see it on your head again, Divines help me I'll—"

He suddenly shoved her violently on the floor. Athena thought for a second it was a demonstration of the punishment he would met out, until she noticed the arrow that had struck the wall parallel to where she had stood a second ago.

"Imperials!" Galmor yelled.

Athena scrambled to her feet, crown still in her hands as they stormed into the room. All of the Imperials looked to her, as a wolf would a sheep. She clasped the crown tighter to her chest.

"Run, girl!" Galmor yelled.

An Imperial was running up to him. She opened her mouth to warn him, but he spun, and knocked the sword from the man's arm in one swipe, and smashed his shield with the second blow. The third, he buried the axe between his eyes. Another man tried to run past him and to Athena, but Galmor seized his arm, pulled him back then wrapped his fingers around his throat, lifted him off the ground and choked the very air from him.

"Well, what in Shor's name are you still doing here? GO!"

She nodded and bolted, the Imperials starting to swarm in the room. She slipped through a gap in the wall, and she heard someone give chase. She glanced aft as she ran, to see an Imperial Legionnaire, whom was also an Imperial by ethnicity, with long, dark hair and blue eyes.

His legs quickly ate up the distance between them and he leapt, dragging her down to the ground with him. The crown slipped from her grasp, bouncing a few feet away. Both watched the procession with panic for some seconds, before they began to move.

She kicked the man in the face before she got to her feet, retrieved the crown as she sprinted past, towards where she hoped was the exit. The man quickly recovered and followed after.

She followed the corridor around, ignoring the Imperials calls for her to stop, and promises that he wouldn't hurt her. She reached a fork in the corridors, chose to turn right. A dead end. She attempted to retrace her steps and go left, but the Imperial now blocked the passage. She was trapped.

He unsheathed his sword, its edge gleaming wickedly in the light of the torches. Athena prepared herself, her hands itching for her daggers. A shout, then a flash of steel, and chaos broke lose.


	15. Chapter 15

**Again, a big thank you to all those whom have favourited and followed, it makes me really happy! :)**

**And to my friends James and Sophie, your continued support keeps me motivated and my spirits high when I need it most! xx**

Chapter 15

''_Betrayal is common for men with no conscience'- Toba Beta, My Ancestor was an Ancient Astronaut_

She had squeezed her eyes shut, in preparation for deathly cold kiss of steel, but it never came. She cautiously opened one eye and chanced to peek. A sword hovered a mere inch above her head, and another had blocked it. The man whom had chased her had saved her life.

Athena backed away, moving from out under the path of the swords, and the moment she done the weapons were burrowed into the ground, the blade of her saviour buckling and giving under the weight of her would-be killer.

"What are you doing, Auxiliary!?" He barked.

"There is no need to kill her, Legate," he replied firmly.

His eyes bore into him. "She Ulfric's spawn. A traitor's seed will grow and become a traitor. She dies now."

The man whom talked was homely, with a creased face with an age spot on his right cheek. His hair was black and greasy, hanging limp and lame around his face, and his skin was so sallow it looked like it had never been sun before, and was pulled so taut over his skull it took on a yellowish hue around the bones.

He shoved the other man out of the way and began walking towards her, sword in hand. She instinctively backed away, clutching the crown so tightly the horns pressed uncomfortably against her skin.

"Give that here girl. I won't ask again."

"No," she said through quivering lips, but her mind screamed at her to relinquish the Jagged Crown and leave, hopefully with her life.

The ugly man's face contorted in fury. "You have some temerity you little cunt. See this sword?" She did, he had it pressed to her face right under her eye. "Give me the crown or I'm going to skewer you with it!"

"That's enough!" The younger man cried, seizing his arm.

"You're walking on a dangerous line, Auxiliary. Some would call this treason."

"Oh? I didn't realize it was treason to protect women and children from depraved, dangerous men." He replied drily.

"That doesn't change the fact that she's a Stormcloak, and she's on the opposite side of the war!" He yelled, the two facing one another, becoming absorbed in their heated debate.

"Oh yes, just sparing the life of one little girl will lose us this entire war," the Auxiliary snapped sarcastically.

Athena began to back away slowly, carefully skirting her way past the two bickering Imperial soldiers.

"You will pay for this, mark my words!"

By this time, Athena had slipped past the two men, sprinting down the corridor to the very opposite end, taking the left on the fork and following the path around. It funnelled down to such a narrow opening she had to squeeze through sideways, but at least she could rest assured the Imperials were too broad to fit through. She continued running through, near slipping up on the ground soaked by water that dripped slowly through cracks in the ceiling, and carried on until her breath became ragged and her head pounded.

She slowed to a walk, glancing askance behind her, even though the Imperials wouldn't be able to fir through the gap. As she rounded one last corner, she saw light on the far end of the passage, light that was pure virginal white, blinding her. The exit.

It led out into the snowy wilds of Skyrim, and the feeling of the bitter cold wind that cut through her armor and skin like knives was euphoric, and the Jagged Crown had never looked a more beautiful accessory.

"Girl!" Galmor's voice sounded behind her. The burly man was running up to her, his person covered in blood and sweat. "You still have the crown? Good, good. Let's return home."

She beamed up at him as she recognised something in his voice she had never heard being used by anyone addressing her before: pride. But as she began their march back, she found herself glancing back over her shoulder and fretting over the Imperial that had saved her life.

"How could you let this happen?" Tullius thundered at the Imperials assembled before him. Ever since they had returned from their unsuccessful mission at Korvanjund, he had been beyond furious. "You let the Stormcloaks take the crown!?"

"They did have a head-start," Julan said timidly.

"Yet I have the report here which claims you encountered them in the chamber which held the crown. You should have slaughtered all them sons-of-bitches like the dogs they are! Instead, you return with your tails betwixt your legs, offering me excuses in place of results."

"One of us had the chance to take the crown, had he not been to craven to seize it," Legate Carroll said derisively.

Caleb never intended to let him get under his skin, but the comment bit.

"I never realised saving a child was craven, now."

"You had the bitch corned that had the crown; all you needed to do was reach out and take it."

General Tullius rounded on him. "Is this true, Auxiliary?"

"Not only that, he actually defended the slut," he jeered. "He stopped me from taking the crown when I realised he had not the stomach to do it."

"I had not the dishonour to do it!" Caleb yelled, his voice rising with anger.

"What in the Gods names am I going to do with you?" The General asked wearily.

"Let him join us," a female voice crowed. "The Legion could do with some more compassionate, strapping men."

The source of the voice strolled in on swaying hips, with a mischievous grin and fiery hair.

"Ilithea?" Caleb asked, wonder staining his voice.

She smiled sweetly. "Hello, love."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

'_Reunion reveals friendship potential that haven't yet been emerged in the past'- Toba Beta, My Ancestor was an Ancient Astronaut_

Tullius heaved a sigh. "Prefect, are you suggesting we let him join? He wanted to spare a Stormcloak. That isn't a trait an Imperial Soldier should have."

Her beautiful emerald eyes bore into Tullius's, having lost their mischievousness.

"Compassion is not such a terrible trait in soldiers. And it is one necessary in human beings. War brings out this worst in us; we could use a hero."

"But what if he decides to spare another Stormcloak? What if he vows never to kill any? It'll be like letting a traitor into our midst!"

Caleb regained sense enough to argue, but Ilithea cut in before he could.

"Dibella's tits, General! No disrespect meant, but you're a fool. He didn't spare a Stormcloak today, he saved a young girls life, a native of Skyrim. Isn't that what you're supposedly doing with this war, trying to save Skyrim and her people?"

"That does not include our opposition, Prefect," he replied sharply.

"But he has proven himself, no? All you said he had to do was return alive from Korvanjund. And unless I'm mistaken, here he stands," she responded smoothly.

"Fine, Prefect. We will make him an auxiliary," he said, relenting.

Caleb was unsure whether to feel relieved or concerned. So much had just happened in that single minute he was having difficulty processing it all. Ilithea had returned, she was part of the Legion, and now so was he. He was actually now in this war.

"Legate Rikke?"

"Yes, General Tullius?"

"Show the Auxiliary to the barracks. The rest of you are dismissed."

General Tullius rested his hands on the table, gripping the edge, looking an era older.

"This way, Auxiliary," Legate Rikke called in a clipped tone, dragging him from out his swamp of thoughts.

She led him out of the room, northward and down a spiral staircase into a room that was devoid of any furnishing except for rows of cots each with a trunk at the foot of each.

"There aren't any designated beds, so choose whatever one you wish when you are tired," she explained in a bored tone. "Step into the women's dorm though, you won't wake from your next sleep."

She left him with that terrifying thought, looking at the dismal living quarters before making his way out of Castle Dour. He suddenly had the need for fresh air.

Out in the courtyard, Julan was trying to improve his bowman-ship, to the great amusement of his onlookers when he couldn't even hit any area of the target. Other soldiers sat out in the final hours of sunlight with skins of wine and card games or duelled with one another.

"Caleb," a familiar female voice saluted him.

So it wasn't an apparition, a vision, a cruel jape played by a bored Daedric Prince. She was really here.

"You seem different," he remarked, still not facing her. He wasn't sure that he was strong enough for that yet.

"I have found that war makes three types of people: the jesters whose jokes aren't funny, cravens that are pushed into war by disappointed fathers, and sour dour people such as yourself," Ilithea said lightly. "You keep frowning in this blustery weather you face might get stuck; it's not pretty from down here."

"Have you ever considered you might be a reason I'm so upset?" He asked heatedly, and regretted it the moment it passed his lips.

"Is this the part where we exchange sob-stories, cry in each other's arms then kiss and make-up? Because I'm game!"

"Ilithea…" he groaned.

"Caleb," she returned jokingly.

"You were right about one thing. You're jokes aren't funny," he said, before levity became frustration. "What happened to you? I waited so long, for you to return, for a letter to say you were still alive, anything! But no! Nothing! And now you return making light of everything like you weren't even gone all these years."

The colour drained from her face. "I know…I should have written. Told you I was alright, and that…and that I missed you."

She spoke these words with such honest regret and looked at him with such sincerity from beneath a frame of thick lashes that it dissolved all his anger, weak man that he was.

"I missed you too. It's why I came to Skyrim. I needed to see you. I needed to know you were still alive."

She cupped his cheek with one soft, slender hand, smiling sadly. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you, believe me, that was my last intention. When I came to Skyrim there were…complications. But once this war is over we'll go home. Together."

"Together," he returned, lacing his fingers through hers.

The following day they received a missive from Whiterun, from Jarl Balgruuf himself. The Stormcloaks had sent him a "message", which was nothing more than a Stormcloak presenting him with an axe, and he announced he was opening his city gates to the Imperial Legion. This was in response to a troubling report he had received. After their victory at Korvanjund, Ulfric had become more cock-sure. He planned an attack on Whiterun.

A large detachment of Imperials were sent to aid in the defence of the city; most of them were, in fact. Only a token force remained behind. Thousands of men and women poured from the city of Solitude on horseback, one score of men riding abreast in columns of five, riding hard for five days, allowed only a paltry five hours of sleep each night.

Fortune had favoured them, though, as they arrived before the Stormcloak's had, making them appear quite the spectacle as they filed into Whiterun's narrow, winding streets. Tullius made straight for Dragonsreach, requesting the company of Legate Rikke, Ilithea and Caleb. He didn't question why he had asked for his presence, but followed them up through the residential and market area to Dragonsreach Palace.

Balgruuf was awaiting them in a room hidden away behind the throne room that doubled into a dining room. Two children that were sat there entertaining themselves with a platter full of confectionary stopped and stared as they passed.

Balgruuf wore a particularly grim expression, and looked very weary. No doubt the threat of Ulfric's siege had cost him many sleepless nights; he cared a great deal for his subjects.

"Jarl Balgruuf!" Legate Rikke saluted him with her fist clenched over her heart.

"I'm glad you have come," he responded wearily. "It won't be long before Ulfric's boys show up."

"Do we have an estimated arrival?" Tullius asked.

"I have sent out scouts, and the watchtowers are manned, but no new reports—"

"My Jarl!" A harried young man cried, running up to them, his hair plastered to his scalp with perspiration rolling off of him. "W-we saw them…across the field. The…the Stormcloaks are coming."

The General and Jarl shared a worried glance, and Caleb felt his stomach stir sickeningly.

"Then," The General said to no one and everyone. "It is time for war."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

'_War doesn't negate decency. It demands it, even more than in times of peace'- Baba, The Kite Runner_

"Men!" Tullius roared, outside of the battlements on the perimeter of Whiterun to the Imperials assembled below. "Those vermin are on their way, spreading their blighted existence across our land, destroying our fair land! They want to slaughter good men, burn down villages and make orphans of children! Are we going to let them? No! Let us defend this hold and kill these men!"

Caleb joined his voice and raised his sword in the air with the other Imperials. The clamour died down as they dispersed to their positions in preparation, and from over the hill they could see the wolves clad in blue marching towards them in unified lines. An organised rebellion.

"Divines save us," one man's voice uttered, breaking the unusual silence.

For the start of a siege, it was awfully quiet. The only sound was the gentle breeze that teased the grass, trees and banners, the creak of tensed bowstrings with nocked arrows. The sun shone in full force, a mockery of the dark day that would follow.

And then suddenly they were there, weapons poised, running towards them. Nocked arrows were loosed at the mob below, tearing through their flesh, the fallen bodies disappearing in the swell below.

The Stormcloaks retaliated, sending their own arrows at the archers posted high. Some quickly took cover, but those too slow fell to the ground below, their bodies making a crunching sound when they impacted on the asphalt.

One sword slashed open the stomach of a rebel, staining the ground with his intestines. A beast of a man pounced behind on an Imperial, breaking his neck easily with one meaty arm. Arrows flew as messengers of death from both sides.

A woman with a fiery mane of hair blocked an attack, elbowed her assaulter in the face, and then destroyed it with her mace before whirling to face another challenger.

Caleb met the challenge of Stormcloak, their swords clashing then grinding against each other like disputing lovers for purchase, until the rebel finally broke, his sword driven to his left flank. Caleb quickly lifted his sword, and cut the man's flank. Whilst he buckled under pain, Caleb drove his blade into the man's stomach and removed it to turn and face another opponent. For each one felled, another appeared.

Caleb defended his neck, shoulder then heart from three consecutive attacks which forced him backwards.

He then saw a glimmer of steel to his right. He dodged away, but another sword to his left bit into this side, between his ribs. Searing pain shot through his torso, forcing him to retreat instinctively. The cut wasn't too deep, but bled profusely.

He brought up his sword with one arm, the other clutching at the wound to staunch the bleeding. He blocked the attack, but his arm was knocked down. He brought it up just in time to parry another blow, but when two swords flew at the same time, he was forced to scramble back. He managed to cut through the knee joints of one, who collapsed unsupported to the ground, screaming. Caleb slit his throat and ended his suffering. The third loomed behind; Caleb saw his shadow fall across the ground. Before he could react, a flash of red hair behind and to his right, then a flash of crimson blood. Caleb turned to see his assailant scrabbling at a severed artery in his neck with his fingers, his eyes only showing white.

Caleb's attention was then drawn to a beast of a man to the north, detectable through the split in the heaving battle that consumed Whiterun Hold.

To say the man had a bulky build would be to underestimate him. He was enormous, the veins on his muscled arms visible from where Caleb stood feet away. A bear pelt covered his broad shoulders and head, the snout growling along with its wearer. A blonde, nearly white moustache and beard obscured the area around his mouth. His lips were pulled back over his teeth in a snarl as he plucked one man up off his feet by his neck. The poor man flailed his legs helplessly, trying to loosen his grip, but then his throat was pulverised and his body flung away at some of his comrades that looked horrified.

Then he pulled the huge battle axe from his back, and as soon as he unsheathed his weapon, his halved a man from his head to his groin. Caleb had to look away, unable to stomach the gore. But then he took the head off a young, dark-haired woman, he head rolling to a stop at Caleb's feet.

The man then charged through the fray, swinging his axe to the right, three men shooting up in the air in a shower of blood and severed limbs, then he repeated the action on the left, killing two men and one woman, beginning to thin the crowd.

Caleb charged at the man, word in his right hand, His first attack was parried easily, rolled side-ways from a counter attack that had threatened to split open his skull. He straightened, swung the sword blindly at the man that missed him completely. The axe came down and sent his weapon spiralling from his grasp that became lost to the chaos of war.

He ducked avoiding an attack, seized a handful of dirt and threw it into his face. He growled, wiping the dry soil quickly from his eyes. Caleb punched him square in the jaw, which only served to send spikes of pain through his fist. He tried to disarm the man, and a wrestle for the axe pursued. The Stormcloak had hold of the handle close to the blade of the axe, and with a burst of energy sent the flat of it into Caleb's temple. His vision blackened slightly and a hollow ringing sounded in his ears as he struggled to orientate himself.

He was on the floor, the axe looming over him, glinting in the light of the setting sun. He rolled away, hearing it split the cool earth. An Imperial Legion appeared from behind him. The man turned, and slapped his with the back of his right hand, only after a knife had been plunged between his shoulder and chest, and as he struggled to his feet, he saw the number of Stormcloaks had thinned dramatically, and now the Legion were pushing them back, killing and driving the remaining back.

As some Imperials pulled him to his feet, Caleb saw the remaining Stormcloaks in full retreat, fleeing from the battle they had instigated. They had won.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

'_Victory has a thousand fathers, but defeat is an orphan'- John F. Kennedy_

Ulfric brooded in his palace at Windhelm, licking his wounds as it were after his humiliating defeat at Whiterun. The Imperials had bested them, and it was made all the worse by the fact that it had not been a loss at battle, but their siege had been quelled.

Athena hadn't seen him so furious and profoundly sad before. He roared himself hoarse at the Stormcloaks that returned, threw things across the room and near tore the armoury apart.

But now he sat on his throne, pensive and brooding, most likely plotting revenge. He had not expected the Legion to throw in their lot with Jarl Balgruuf.

The prospective King looked gloomily at the Jagged Crown he held in his hands.

"An empty crown," he spoke to the room vacant but for him and Athena. "For an empty title."

He tossed the crown across the room. It bounced several times on the cobbled ground, then stopped rolling at her feet. She gingerly lifted it up and looked at her father, whom looked as though he had aged several era's.

She walked to her father with the caution of approaching a starved sabre cat. He gave her a questioning look as she stepped toward him.

"You are a true King," she said, "You defeated Torygg because you love this country, because you saw that it needed a new ruler, one that could rule this mighty country, and one that would uphold our Nord traditions. You fight for a kingdom we wish to live in, and if needs be, die for."

He seemed to draw strength from her words and gently accepted the crown from her proffered hands, squeezing the fingers of her right hand gently as he did.

"And you are a true daughter of Skyrim, Athena."

It took her completely by surprise. Affection, from her father to her. She enjoyed being on the receiving end of such kindness, such fondness, even though it was a complete alien sensation to her. It made her feel elated, wanted, and so ultimately proud.

"But it is time we plan a strike-back at our enemy," he said with restored vitality. "We will march on Solitude. Take the fight back to the Empire!"

Athena grinned at her fathers reinstated vigour, and the prospect that soon, this war may be done.

"We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone, for the Age of Aggression, is now nearly done!" The Legionnaire's began belting out the song considered the Empire's ballad alongside a bard that had joined their revels in Castle Dour. Caleb found himself clapping along with the others and smiling, but the words would not pass his lips, his smile felt false and the mead was not as sweet as it would be to the tongues of others. Why did victory taste so bitter?

"We'll drive out the Stormcloaks from this land that we own, with our blood and our steel we'll take back our home!"

Looking around now, every single other Imperial was belting out the lines now, faces flushed and all holding bottles of wine or tankards of mead. Caleb was honestly surprised that Tullius would allow such extravagant celebrations. The man was strict and professional to the point where it was impossible tom imagine him doing ordinary everyday tasks such as drinking, eating, reading and so forth.

"DOWN WITH ULFRIC, THE KILLER OF KINGS, ON THE DAY OF YOUR DEATH WE WILL DRINK AND WE'LL SING!" They roared in unison, shaking the still air with the force of their combined voices.

Caleb could even see Ilithea shouting along, face flushed with a bottle of wine in her hand, sitting atop a table surrounded by a crowd of cheering men. The sight was a knife in his chest. In Cyrodiil, Ilithea had been the embodiment of a shy, blushing maid that would flush at the slightest word or gesture of affection. And now her she was, under the influence of alcohol and thoroughly enjoying their attention.

Caleb set his tankard down and excused himself, suddenly desperate for air that was not saturated with the smell of sweat and ale.

He leaned his head against the castle's cold, unyielding stone and closed his eyes. Unbidden images of the battle swirled into his brain, blood, death, fire, destruction. A battle had not been won. Only a hundred or so lives lost.

"Buy me a drink, sailor?" A giggly voice whispered in his ear.

"Not entirely sure that's wise," he said looking at Ilithea with a weary smile. "You've had enough for one night."

"Just drinking enough for the both of us," she pouted. "What's wrong? You're putting the Dour in Castle Dour."

"Just tired," he lied.

"That's a lie," she said, her words slurring slightly.

"You wouldn't remember come the morning," he said grinning.

"Hey! I'm not that bad!" She protested, attempting to playfully slap him but missed completely and stumbled against the wall. "I'm still sober enough to tell something's bothering you."

"This war," he admitted. "It's all wrong. I can't understand the reasoning behind either side now I think about it. Instead of raising their banners against one another they could have attempted resolving it with words."

"That would have been boring," she said impishly.

Caleb fixed her with a contemptuous gaze and she quickly amended her statement: "I was joking, I was joking! We just don't all have your patience or wisdom.

Allow me to impart some advice, Caleb. Make the best of where you are."

With that she disappeared back inside, leaving him with his thoughts.

Day dawned early next morn, but it was afternoon before the Imperials summoned the willpower to rise from their beds with throbbing headaches and roiling stomachs. Caleb was among them, having drank and brooded after his small talk with Ilithea.

"Quaestor!" A messenger entered his room and hailed his with his new rank. After the battle at Whiterun, he had been promoted from Auxiliary. "General Tullius has requested the presence of every Legionnaire in the courtyard immediately."

The messenger excused himself, and Caleb left the emptying dorms and exited outside, the afternoon sun blistering on his armoured skin.

Tullius was present, standing before the growing group of Imperials organised in lines of ascending rank. Caleb stood in position, and when the last had trickled rom the Castle, the General addressed them.

"Men, women, I have decided that it is time to strike back at Ulfric right where it hurts. Ready yourselves Imperials, for in two days we shall begin a march on Windhelm for one last glorious battle. It is time to put an end to the Age of Aggression!"

The crowd drew out their weapons and raised their voices in a battle cry like animals thirsting for blood, but Caleb's weapon stayed in its scabbard, and his voice was silent. He watched Tullius watching his cheering soldiers with a greedy glint in his eye, Caleb even fancied that he saw a hint of madness. He found himself wondering, and not for the first time, whether he made the right decision joining the war.

None else shared the sentiment. The forge was immediately lit, and the smith worked forging armor and weapons without pause. Warriors sparred with each other using blunted weapons, and archers fired off shots at targets set up around the perimeter of the yard, and the cook toiled in the kitchen, making rations of salted pork, smoked salmon, honeyed ham, bread loaves, apples, gouts, pickled onions and skins of water.

Caleb found himself sitting solitarily, sharpening the edge of his blade with a whetstone until he sensed a presence behind him. From his peripheral he saw red.

"May I? She asked, gesturing to the empty space beside him.

"Of course," he replied, without meeting her eyes.

Neither spoke for a while, but the silence was not uncomfortable. In Bruma, they had sat next to each other on the mountains to watch sunrise, without saying a word. Sometimes, they were just not necessary.

"So…" she began.

"So?" He prompted her when she lapsed back into silence.

"I was wondering…"

He stopped to look at her. "Yes?"

"That there's something I want to tell you. I owe you an explanation."

He made no reply.

"I'm sorry. For everything that I put for you. For not only leaving, but for disappearing. I'm sorry I didn't write you, I'm sorry I didn't return." She inhaled a breath shaky from suppressed emotion. "I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I missed you."

She stood up and began walking away, but Caleb grabbed her arm, seized her and brought her lips to his, all resolve and restraint gone. On her tongue he could taste the familiar taste of mint leaves that she loved to chew. His mind began to swim, his senses falter. The whole world around them melted away, the catcalls and jeers belonged to a whole other world.

But it all rushed back as he drew away from her, colour and sound assaulting his brain as it flooded back into existence. They were both a little breathless, and Ilithea's lips were slightly swollen from the kiss, her cheeks as red as her hair.

He enfolded her in his arms. "I missed you too."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

'_Battle not with monsters lest you become one'- Friedrich Nictriche_

A host of Imperial soldiers made their way south-east of Solitude to Windhelm, at least ten-thousand strong wending their way across the uncultivated wilderness of Skyrim to the offending city. The Stormcloaks were not to be given repose after their heavy loss at Whiterun. Tullius intended to end this war, and end it quickly. But Caleb didn't think the war could be won quite as easily or quickly as the General wanted, though he wished it would as well; he had already delayed seeing the Greybeard long enough.

The march to Windhelm was long and solemn—it was nigh on six days before they reached the city. And of course, by then, the Stormcloaks had already mounted a defence despite their significantly lessened numbers. A valiant effort.

What greeted them as the city's gates were hastily erected barriers of sharpened lengths of woods and spear-men, holding the weapons fore and archers posted at elevated positions, arrows already nocked. No sooner had the Imperials reached the city the darkened clouds opened, ironically pouring forth a deluge of freezing rain.

The Stormcloaks struck first, sparking the final battle for Skyrim with a hail of arrows that rained down upon them, cutting through the heads of several of the Legionnaire's, too tightly packed on the bridge to Windhelm to properly evade any incoming attacks.

The Imperials charged the spear lines, vaulting over all bowling through the barricades, the latter option costing them gashes to their limbs or torso that went ignored. Spears were swept to the side, then their holders cut down, but one unfortunate man ended skewered in the end, his flailing person lifted into the air then tossed off the end where his bleeding body was trampled on.

The rest of the Stormcloaks vanguard rushed forth to join the outer-defence and more arrows rained down from the ramparts. Caleb skittered away from the radius of the volley of arrows that claimed the lives of a small amount of Imperials. The Imperials soldiers retaliated with shot arrows, sending eight of the two score archers tumbling from the battlements to the Sodom below.

The swords came next, glistening from the rainwater as they came forth to meet each other, twirling through the air, embracing, parting, pirouetting and meeting once more, each soldier having at least one partner in the maddening dance of steel. More arrows were exchanged between the two sides, most falling short into the slurry that the ground had become.

Swords continued flashing, clashing against metal shields and shattering wooden ones and spears penetrated flesh. And soon, amidst all of the earth-shattering chaos, the city gates were breached and the fighting spilled out into the narrow labyrinth of streets.

The Imperials crushed the vanguard, the snow stained with the scarlet blood of the fallen. Caleb cut through the side of a spear-man, turned and stabbed through another's chest, battered down an attacking rebel's sword with three blows, then cut open his exposed throat. The last fell dying with a horrid gurgling noise as the blood bubbled from his severed jugular.

The Stormcloaks strategically arranged themselves so groups blocked every passage that led to the Palace of Kings, where Ulfric resided, having not presented himself on the battlefield. What kind of King refuses to fight alongside his people to defend his own city?

The surviving archers were nocking more arrows, but suddenly a large boulder slung from a catapult outside of the city destroyed the ramparts and sent the bowmen scattering down upon them with chunks of rock and splinters of wood that crushing several luckless soldiers from both sides with a chorus of dying shouts.

Caleb spun right to avoid a spear to his flank, grabbed hold of the lance with one hand, kept it out of the way and with the other fire-bolted him in the abdomen, sending his flying aft with fire streaming from his torso and his body smacking against a building.

Caleb turned with spear still in hand, punctured another behind him then stabbed him through the throat when he doubled-over. He threw the spear that caught one in the chest that was troubling a young Imperial just keeping three soldiers at once, wrenched free his sword from his scabbard and sliced the lower belly of one running towards him weapon held over his head like an amateur. He stopped, his whole frame freezing as well as a shocked expression before he collapsed mutedly.

"ARCHERS!" Roared General Tullius, ordering another volley from the bowmen.

The barrage of arrows flew straight over the heads of the Imperials and impaled them through the skull, heart or stomach, thinning the numbers of the defence.

That's when a person more bear than man appeared. He was different than the one he had seen in Whiterun, but still had the same ginormous build. His head was completely shaved bald, but coarse brown hair sprouted from every other part of his body. The blue Stormcloak cuirass was stretched tight across his belly swollen from years of over-indulgence in food and ale. In one meaty hand he held a flail, the spiked ball nestled in the mud, bits of blood and flesh hanging onto the metal thorns. Then he lifted it from the ground, swung it once, twice, thrice over his head then unleashed the attack that smashed asunder the skulls of five Imperials, imminent death muffling their cries of pain and death.

He spun it once more and sent it spiralling to Caleb. He dodged to the side and heard the dull thump and splash as it hit he saturated ground. Caleb seized a shield that lay neglected next to him, and brought it up just in time for the second attack. It was reduced to kindling on impact, and sent sharp pains lancing up his arm from wrist to shoulder. He was forced to duck low on his hind legs to evade an attack to his head, then lunged once he saw an opening, sword poised. One meaty arm caught him in the ribs, pushing him aside. Caleb landed painfully on his back, the air knocked from his lungs. Before he could rise, the man placed one enormous foot on his chest applied pressure, causing his ribs to creak and start aching. His flail cut down an Imperial rushing to his rescue, then brought the flail up with a grin, revealing one golden tooth.

Caleb summoned ice to his palm then aimed it the best his flagging spirit would allow and released. The ice struck him in the face, sending blood pouring forth from his ruined visage. Caleb managed to squirm out from under his grasp as he thrashed around madly. He fired another that completely stilled his movement.

Caleb glanced around as he regained his breath and waited for the ache to subside. All across the city-turned-battlefield the Imperials were finding victory, dispatching of the rebels. Their numbers had dwindled to about three-dozen after the hours of fighting, and the rest threw down the arms in a sign of good faith as the cried: "Yield! Yield!"

Caleb could hardly believe it. They had triumphed, even if their leader still resided in his Palace. The rain stopped, and the sun could be seen fighting off the clouds that oppressed the sky.

The General walked amongst the surrendered Stormcloaks, sizing each of them up as they knelt in the mud, weapons displayed before them out of arms reach. He turned to his army that had formed ranks and with an unreadable expression uttered three simple words: "Kill them all."

**I'd like to give a shout-out to my friend and beta-reader Chloe. Thank you for taking the time to read my work and for bolstering my confidence with praise. And for Skylar DC for all the kind words and for writing your amazing fanfictions! :)**


	20. IMPORTANT UPDATE PLEASE READ

**A Quick Update**

**Please note that this is ****NOT**** a chapter, but an update!**

**Yes, I know it's been a while since I posted anything, and I just wanted to let you all know I'm still alive and I haven't given up writing just yet. But this is a pretty busy time of year for me and my beta-readers, so I hope you understand that I and they just haven't had the time to work on any fanfiction. **

**SO, optimistically by the end of this week you might see a chapter up, if not definitely by the beginning of next week, I am so sorry for the delay guys, and hope it'll be worth the wait. And for those who are reading my Dragon Age: Origins fanfiction A World Torn Asunder, I'll get onto my beta reader/editor for the second chapter, seeing as how he's finished school now and doesn't really have anything better to do ;P**

**Anyway, I hope you're looking forward to future chapters, take care of yourself and enjoy your week! :)**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

'_An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind'- Mahatma Gandhi _

Athena could only glare at the man left in the room with him. He made no move to kill her, or to leave. What _was_ he going to do? What did he want from her? Why did he spare her life?

She wanted to pose these questions to him, but her voice had died when he had taken off her father's head, like her own vocal chords had been severed.

The glared at each other in a deafening silence until she could no longer bear it.

"Why did you save me?" She ventured to ask.

"I'm not entirely certain of that myself," he replied. The neutrality of his tone sounded forced. "Perhaps I believe you can be redeemed. Perhaps I believe I can one day forgive you. Or that leaving you to live as an orphan would be the greatest revenge I could exact."

His chilling tone and callous words made her pain surmount to near unstandable levels rather than increase her anger. Her body was weak, her mind too tired to feel more than one emotion. Instead, she filtered them down into one: despair.

"What do you want with me?" She asked.

"Nothing. Live and die in what way you deem fit," he said, before storming out of the Palace.

Now she was completely alone, with neither friend nor ally, next to her late father and king's body. She remained with him a little longer, with the only family she had ever had.

She wandered away, and out of the palace, unsure of where she was going, what she was to do now. The city she had called home would be an empty husk of what it once was, subjugated to enemy rule that would cut her throat if they saw her.

Athena had expected, for some bizarre reason, the Imperials to be departed. Though outside of the Palace, she saw they were assembled in lines of rank before the General. She quickly hid herself in a niche of one of the walls that flanked her home, and listened as he addressed them.

"Men we are victorious!"

A cheer greeted these words, even though this news was obviously well-known to them.

"The Stormcloaks are now sullying the afterlife with their presence; the affliction their existence spread across Tamriel now cured with the beheading of their leader and the up-rooting of his blind lackeys. His…'reign' is at an end. The city, and the whole of Skyrim, is ours!"

Athena felt the fiery hands of hate clawing at her throat at these words, and her hands curled so tightly into fists her nails drew blood, whereas the Imperials shouted themselves hoarse, fists pumping the air, hands gleefully clapping. Their General strutted before them like he was Talos re-incarnated, clearly enjoying their attention and sharing their ill-earned joy. Athena wanted to do nothing more than to crush his heart, all of theirs, but what could one young girl do against an entire army?

Her eyes skimmed over the disheartening sight, until one attracted her attention. It was the Imperial that had killed her father. He was watching the procession with indifference, not joining his voice with his comrades. He looked so…distraught.

Another day, that expression might have drawn empathy and compassion from her, but she wished to crush his miserable heart into a thousand pieces so that he could join his beloved. The though scared her though. She had never truly wished anyone dead before. Imperials slain at her hand was out of duty, and lack of choice. Athena was suddenly afraid and disgusted with herself but it did nothing to staunch these feelings. She decided then, that she would have her vengeance.

The General finished his victory speech as Athena concluded her epiphany. The Imperials dispersed, most staying in the city, their presence a scourge on Windhelm.

Athena remained hidden, and watched them as they began 'cleansing' the city by unceremoniously dumping the bodies in one massive heap, and then set fire to it. The bodies of the Imperials were of course given gentler treatment.

Though she watched the entire scene, committing it to memory as her comrades deserved that much, her eyes followed the kingslayer, as he made for the city gates. She absconded her hiding place and followed after him, maintaining a safe distance. She convinced herself that she was just after answers, but the truth was that she planned to follow him, and murder him while he slept. She knew she couldn't survive a sword-fight with him.

So she followed behind for the whole day, the fires of anger never quenched, it only continued to burn more intense as each second grated away at her already frayed nerves, the anger and pain nearly made her heart explode. But she continued, this one resolve one of her last reasons for existence.

As the sun began to wane, the curtains of night falling, Athena fell back, the feeling of unadulterated fear banishing the anger and strength she had thus far used to compel her forwards. Her loneliness and vulnerability made itself known: a young girl prowling Skyrim at night, clad in the armor of the recently quashed rebellion was easy prey for man or beast. Her frightfulness made her ashamed; she could practically feel the disapproving eyes of her recently deceased father boring into her. He would probably say "I didn't raise a coward for a daughter."

She could see the campfire that had been lit hours earlier approximately fifty feet away, the orange flames oddly inviting. They seemed to have an attractive quality, enticing her with their hypnotic dance that stirred small black wisps in the wake of each movement, chasing away her dread. Her legs began moving with a reluctant pace, one foot hesitantly following after the other.

When she was close enough, she saw that he was asleep, close to the fire. She moved even more slowly, afraid her steps would disturb the sudden stillness that hung in the air that made her body heavy as lead. Even her breathing became more absurd, as though the inhale and expel of air would cause him to waken and reverse their roles in this scenario. But he didn't, even now as she hovered over his person, dagger in hand.

As she slowly positioned the blade at an artery on his neck, she gathered all her willpower and inner-strength and channelled it into the hand with the weapon. But she made a mistake in closing her eyes.

A strong wrist snapped around hers and twisted it behind her back, the pressure loosening her grip on her blade. She was restrained, her front pressed to the dry ground, a sword held to the back of her throat. She didn't struggle, lest it cause the steel to drive through her skin, but she inwardly cursed at her carelessness.

"It's you." His voice was as cold as the steel sword he had pressed against her exposed skin.

"Let me go!" She demanded, loathing the whining and shaky tone of her voice that belayed the terror that gripped her throat with ice-cold hands.

He plucked her weapon from the ground. "I will let you go, if you promise not to run."

"Fine," she snapped.

He released her, and in return Athena remained, his proposition exciting her curiosity.

"You want me dead," he said, his tone implying it wasn't a question.

"Yes," she confessed. She was finding it difficult to look him in the eye as she spoke. Was it the fear, or the guilt? "You do not feel the same?"

He shifted on the ground uncomfortably. "Revenge did cross my mind."

Athena cast her eyes to the grass below. Was he going to kill her?

"But I have more pressing matters that require my attention," he said, looking to the sky that was a collective mess of clouds and stars.

"Such as you being the Dragonborn?" She asked, trying to maintain a casual, steady voice but failing, her curiosity still tangible in her tone.

"Yes," he replied, humouring her, "I have already tarried in the war for too long. I need to attend to my duties as Dragonborn."

Athena had heard tales from when she was a child, of a dragon named Alduin, Alduin The World-Eater as he was sometimes referred to as. It is said that only the Dragonborn, an ancient hero of legend could stop Alduin. A Dragonborn hasn't been seen since Tiber Septim, but now one sat before her. _If I kill him, _she thought, _I doom every sole in Tamriel, living or dead, to be devoured by him._ She suddenly felt so selfish and ashamed for harbouring thoughts to begin with. There was more at stake here than her self-serving desire for revenge.

"Then, you are the only one who can stop Alduin," she said, voicing aloud her musings.

He didn't answer, but merely regarded her with an expression she couldn't read. For some reason, it made her feel all the more uncomfortable.

"Let me…let me help you," Athena said, her voice barely a decibel above a whisper.

He still remained silent, but he was staring at her with a mask of curiosity.

"Why would you want to accompany me?" He eventually asked after a prolonged period of silence." And why would I covet your company?"

The bitterness in his tone bit into her skin and made her wince aloud, but she would not give up. This could be an opportunity for them both to find redemptions, and perhaps in time, learn to forgive and tolerate one another.

"If you are to challenge the World-Eater, then I'm sure company would be beneficial, whether it was desired or unwanted. There is more at stake here." She offered her hand. "Partners?"

She was mildly surprised when he accepted. "Partners."

**Well guys, what do you think so far? Did I do good? Did I? Comments and constructive criticism is always welcome :)**

**For the "relationship" between Caleb and Athena, I was trying to go for something like Booker DeWitt and Elizabeth from Bioshock Infinite, but it is probably more like Arya and The Hound from Game of Thrones. I wonder how many of you know what I'm actually going on about. Ah, well.**

**A big thank you to my beta-reader Chloe, without her humour and friendship, I would be lost!**

**I hope you enjoyed it guys, see you on the next chapter!**


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

'_The enemy is anybody who's going to get you killed, no matter which side he is on' Joseph Huller, Catch-22_

She slept like the dead. Supposedly, children dealt with hard times by falling asleep. Maybe she hadn't grown out of that habit when she reached her teen years. Not that her sleep was at all peaceful; she tossed, turned and mumbled in her sleep, but such was to be expected after what she had been through. _What __**I **__put her through, _Caleb mentally corrected himself. He still found it hard to have sympathy for her, however, for she had rendered him nearly the most miserable man on the planet, which was why he was still awake in the early hours of the morn as his sworn enemy tossed and turned from night terrors brought on by the day's events.

At dawn, he roused her, and she regarded him with confusion for a fraction of a second, before she registered his identity, and then her expression changed to one of cold familiarity. At least she hadn't tried to kill him again today. It was a good start.

After a simple breakfast of hard bread and smoked ham, they struck out to the south-west of Windhelm, to Ivarstead, a village at the foot of the Throat of the World, on the apex of which High Hrothgar was situated. He had been summoned months earlier by the Greybeards, and it was about time he answered those summons. The war had greatly side-tracked him; the Greybeards would like be wondering why he had yet to visit them in their secluded monastery.

Their walk was cheerless and silent. They had both agreed to work together to defeat Alduin, but their alliance was uneasy, one born more of convenience than a desire for each other's company. But the girl never deigned to leave, nor did he banish her from his side. Instead they braved Skyrim's harsh, frigid territory, passing over frozen field after frozen field, crossing over the western border of Eastmarch as they made for Ivarstead, the village at the foot of the Throat of the World.

They waded through an ice-cold river that came up to Caleb waist, which was chest-high for Athena. The water was wretchedly cold, but when they submerged it was far worse. It made him far more aware of his soaked armor that clung to his skin, cold, wet and unwelcome.

They walked over the bank, into a wooded area where the trees where crowned by snow in the place of leaves, the barks encrusted with ice that glimmered in the sun. He noticed, however, that the snow was shaking, an unknown source moving it and making several flakes fall to the ground. That's when he _felt_ the shaking, the ground trembling in a steady, even rhythm. Caleb froze in place, glancing around the wintry landscape for the cause.

"What is that?" Athena asked, her voice trembling as much as the ground.

He didn't reply. He surveyed the area with a keen eye and ear.

"Caleb?" She pursued tenaciously.

Then the pounding increased, accompanied by a muffled thud each time. That was when it came bounding from north into the clearing they stood in, towering a good foot or three above them. A giant.

The towering creature leered down at them with small, pale squinty eyes, one large hand the size of a ham joint stroking its beard crusted with ice, the other clutching at a large club resting on his bare shoulder.

Caleb made sure to make no sudden movements or noises. Giants generally only attack if they feel the target is a threat. The girl kept absolutely stock-still, rooted the ground more from fear than survival instincts.

The giant continued it visual examination of them both for several seconds. Its expression then became sour, and it backed off a couple of steps than roared, its' terrible voice threatening to destroy his hearing.

It beat the end of its club against his free palm, then beat its fist against its chest, but it made no move to attack. Caleb retreated a step, placing some much-needed distance between them. Athena completely backed away until her back was pressed against the trunk of a tree. The giant's eyes flickered between them both, then it lumbered towards them, waving its club in the air. It swung it in a perfect arc once it was close enough to Caleb. He tucked and rolled, narrowly avoiding the hit. The club struck the ground, snow spraying up into the air. Caleb unsheathed his sword and hacked at its calf, its thin skin only grazed, but a thin line of blood drawn. It retaliated by swinging its left fist which he narrowly avoided by evading backwards, then cutting at its hands. The three most centre fingers were sliced off. The giant roared, but whether it was more from pain or rage, Caleb couldn't tell.

Its ginormous foot caught him in the chest, knocking him backwards and halting his breathing for an instant. His back smacked against a frozen trunk of a tree, the fractured surface biting into his back.

The girl charged forth with foolish bravado, a dagger in each hand. She sprinted towards the hulking monstrosity, and leapt acrobatically into the air, her arms rising in preparation to cut through its nearly-impenetrable hide. It easily swatted the dainty girl aside. She landed on the snow on all fours, like a feline.

Caleb scrambled, regaining his footing, and launched a fire-bolt at the creature, that struck its left shoulder. It left a smouldering blackened mark at the point of impact that contrasted starkly on its white skin. The creature staggered from the force and agony, then charged in for the kill, swinging its club at a wide enough angle to hit both of them. Caleb retreated to avoid it, Athena ducking in time to avoid her brains being dashed from her head.

He fired off another fir-bolt, striking it in the gut charring a patch of flesh, dropping the beast onto one knee as its fingers grasped at the molten flesh. A blue blare tipped with gold flashed past faster than a werewolf, and cut its large throat open, a fountain of blood gushing forth from the fatal wound. A guttural choking sound marked the end of its existence, at the hand of the rebel girl, no less.

She was drenched in blood, her blue armor, blonde hair and pale skin marred by crimson splotches, the majority of which was on her face and hands. She looked down at them with an expression that looked, fingers spread, blood slowly dripping from each digit and burning holes into the snow. She had a strange expression on her face that seemed both sad and surprised.

"Let's continue," was all he could bring himself to say.

She diverted her attention from her blood-stains to him and gave a tight nod before walking ahead past the downed creature.

**Sorry it took so long, I had major writers block…and I was busy playing The Last of Us. God it's such a good game!**

**As always, reviews are welcome, thank you to those who have reviewed/followed/faved, it really means a lot! Have a great day and enjoy the lovely summer weather!**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

'_To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.'- Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse_

Much like Riverwood, Ivarstead was a small hamlet with its own charm made by its rustic simplicity. Small farmholds and cottages mainly dominated the area, the largest building an inn, distinctive from all the other buildings by the wooden sign that waved with the gentle breeze. Engraved into it was the name "Vilemyr Inn". Athena conjectured that it was the name of its owner.

Evening had settled over the village, the setting sun dousing the looming mountain in a burnt orange colour, casting a large shadow across the village cowering below. So intimidating was the mountain that a stream flowed in the opposite direction with haste to escape from its frozen clutches. Despite the ferocity of its appearance, there was a certain beauty about this place, the harmonious conjoining of blossoming greenery and snow, the jagged grey mountain crowned with the pure white dusting of winter, and the sky, the blue fading into the loving embrace of vanilla, which darkened to a deep orange as the glowing orb slipped below the horizon. Since the start of this new journey, it was the first time that she had felt any sort of tranquillity.

Seven thousand steps was the amount that would take them to the apex of the Throat of the World, where the wise masters of the voice, the Greybeards, lived in total seclusion, not coveting social relations of any sort. How they would receive a conflicting duo such as themselves, even if one of them was the Dragonborn, Athena knew not. They never troubled to involve themselves in the affairs of Skyrim, so would they feel any sort of obligation to aid the one trying to stop Alduin the World-eater?

They rested at the inn for the night, a rare occurrence as they hadn't happened across any in their travels. It was a bed with straw that provoked itching in her skin, with a thin blanket that scarce afforded any sort of protection from the night's chill, but it was marginally better than spending the night lying on the cold, hard ground, completely vulnerable to the elements.

But her sleep was hounded by the people she had not saved. The mother she had never known, who had died giving life to her. The father that she had failed to protect. The coming of dawn was a relief, the first rays of light chasing away the shades of night that conjured images born from her guilt and grief.

Fatigue clawed at her eyes and near crippled her legs as they begun to tackle the seven thousand steps embedded into the frozen slopes of the mountain. The cliff was home to many animals, mainly deer and moose, galloping gracefully across the rugged landscape, tackling the ice-encased boulders with ease. Caleb wasn't bothered by the slippery surface, but Athena's foot twisted from under her several times as she braved the harsh terrain.

Lining both sides of the mountain were miniature shrines carved from grey stone so dark and smooth it could be easily mistaken for onyx. Some travellers had left offerings of flowers, food such as pieces of fruit and gold to confer the blessing of whatever God the shrine was devoted to. Some adventurers were actually present, kneeling with clasped hand before the pious monuments in prayer. Athena thought of questioning on, but thought better of it and left them undisturbed in their contemplation.

As they continued to wend their way upwards, the ground ahead dropped away into the nothing, leaving a yawning chasm between them and progress. A small narrow ledge jutted out slightly from the cliff face, offering a path. A dangerous path, but a path across all the same.

Caleb started across the path first and Athena followed, back pressed against the face of the cliff, the smallest rocks crumbling under her weight making her dread it completely falling away and making her plunge downwards into the white abyss. She cast her eyes skyward to avoid having to looking at the sickening drop.

Suddenly, her foot slipped from the edge, plummeting down through air, then the rest of her body followed. He eyes widened in surprise, a scream of terror and surprise suppressed in her throat. An iron grip snared her forearm, suspending her in the air. She looked upward, to see that her saviour was none other than Caleb. He pulled her up to safety with ease, setting her down on the path.

"Watch your step," he said rigidly to her.

The gratitude she felt for her rescue burned out on her tongue, so she just nodded in acknowledgment. A solid wall they had built from the blood they had shed continued to separate them, and they might never tear it down, or even want to.

Their ascent was silent, except for the crunch of snow underfoot, the gentle moaning of the slight breeze and the muttering of the few praying pilgrims they encountered, eventually coming to a narrowed path hooded by the two of the over-hanging ledges that pock-marked the surface of the mountain. A small movement of a figure caused a gentle shower of snow to cascade softly downwards at their feet, then the perpetrator made itself known.

The hulking figure was bound in tough leathery skin shrouded by a coat of pure white snow that had camouflaged itself from them before. Its long arm were tipped by three large long claws. Bits of flesh and dried blood still clung to it from its latest kill, its three black eyes gleaming gluttonously at the prospect of new prey.

It threw its head backwards, looking to the sky then roared before it lumbered towards them with hulking steps, its body leaning heavily to the left with each step. Athena foolishly dashed to the beast, not knowing the extent of its strength and speed. She sunk one dagger into its chest, and cruelly twisted the steel, widening the wound. With an inhuman shriek Athena was shoved backwards, landing heavily on the icy ground, her dagger ripped from the monsters chest and unceremoniously tossed to the side. The troll dropped down onto three limbs, the rushed forth with inhuman speed that her brain could barely comprehend.

Caleb got their first, a fire spell already primed. The bolt struck the beast, completely halting all movement for a split second. It recovered, its arm swung forward, cutting three long, deep lines from shoulder to navel with a fine spray of crimson. Athena charged forward, retrieving her discarded dagger as she did. She slashed at the beast, cutting through its palm as it went to strike her. The troll knocked her in her stomach, winding her. Her back struck one of the sides of the cliff with such force snow rained down, near drowning her. She saw the troll rearing to attack once more, and rolled sideways. Its claws struck through the ice. But then, another ball of flame struck the beast. It staggered, then fell still in the snow with one final convulsion of its limbs.

Caleb was lying in the snow, propped up on one elbow, the hand that had fired the spell still aimed, a look of intense pain etched into his features. He then slumped backwards into a comatose state.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

'_Woman must not depend on the protection of man, but must be taught to protect herself.' –Susan B. Anderson_

Caleb awoke to find himself in familiar surrounding—the inn back down in the village of Ivarstead. Pain lanced through his every nerve even when he was still and the slightest movement completely incapacitated him. Even breathing was a conscious effort. The wounds to his torso felt tight, like the edges of the cuts were being tugged at. He investigated; saw that he had been stripped of his armor down to the tunic and breeches he wore beneath. His wounds had been sown together, but rather sloppily. The skin at the edges was inflamed and the stitches were uneven. It needed to be healed properly.

Grimacing, he took the cheese knife off of the table situated by the opposite wall and cut away at the threads, sending a jab of pain through his wounds each time. Blood began seeping from the lacerations, along with a strange white pus that seemed to burn his inflamed skin.

Placing one hand on the top of the gashes, he summoned the comforting warmth of a healing spell. A soft orange glow emanated from his palms and was dispersed amongst his fragmented skin, soothing the itch, staunching the pain and knitting the flesh back together and numbing the pain.

He rose from the bed and donned his armor, found his sword and pack placed in the chest at the foot of the rickety wooden bed, and slung them on his back. He had lost the progress upwards to High Hrothgar, and desperately needed to make up for the lost time.

When he exited the room, Athena was sat pensively whilst the innkeeper prattled onto her in what must have been an attempt to sooth her, but she sat with glazed eyes that blocked out the focus of his endless talk.

"See? Here he is right now," the innkeeper said, gesturing to him with the tankard he had been polishing. "Told you he would be fine. You worry too much, young miss."

She stood and turned to face him, her face was unreadable.

"You're alive," she said, in a somewhat distant voice.

"Is this…Vilemyr Inn?" He asked. He wouldn't be anywhere else, but he needed conformation.

"Aye," the owner replied. "I'm Wilhelm, the owner of the establishment. This girl and a couple of pilgrims carried you back here. You were pretty badly wounded. All the blood near scared all the patrons away."

"You brought me back?" he asked Athena. He was surprised, to say the least.

"I…had help," she muttered, her eyes dropping from his to the splintered ground.

"She were the one that stitched you back together, though," Wilhelm supplied with a nod of admiration. "You were out for at least two days. Without her, you would have bled to death."

_Two days? _He questioned silently, horrified.

"I thank you for your help," he said to Wilhelm. "But we must be going. There is an appointment that we need to keep. Go get your belongings." he said to Athena. She nodded mutely and retrieved her pack from another room.

"How much do we owe you?" He asked Wilhelm, expecting him to demand compensation for the gore frightening his customers and staining the sheets.

"Don't worry about it friend, you two just take care."

Caleb nodded and left, Athena in tow, and they began their ascent once more, a little to his annoyance.

"So…you saved me?" he asked her.

"With some help, yes. I took you back to the inn, where I could treat your wounds," she explained, her tone kept carefully neutral.

"Where did you learn how to seal wounds?" he asked. She didn't seem the type to know how to heal injuries.

"I…don't really," she said quietly. "I picked up some basics when I was part of the Stormcloak rebellion, but that's it."

"And, why did you help me?" He couldn't prevent himself from asking the question.

"It would be unhealthy for Tamriel, to say the least, if the Dragonborn died," she quipped with the lightest touch of mirth in her tone, but her facial expression remained stoic.

"Is that the only reason?" Caleb asked. He couldn't help but feel she was holding back, that she hid what she really wanted to tell him.

"What do you want from me?" she snapped impatiently, evading the question by raising her voice.

"Nothing. Nevermind," he replied, ending the conversation.

The casting of a black shadow coincided with the commencement of their silence, a large shadow with wings. It was a dragon!

Caleb seized hold of Athena and dragged her away from the open path into a small niche in one of the walls.

"Wha—" she started to demand an explanation.

"Dragon," he cut her off, watching the beast from the shadows.

She followed his line of sight, and saw the black beast with razor-sharp scaled contrasting against the stark-white landscape. The dragon drifted slowly overhead, circling in search for prey on the mountains path. It roared, its voice throaty, deep and intimidating, echoing through the sky and across the land below, scaring the pilgrims away from their meditations and into hiding. But as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared over the horizon.

Caleb and Athena waited until it was no longer visible before leaving their hiding, staring after the monster. He had seen it before. It was the same dragon that had attacked Helgen before his execution. Was it following him? Could it sense that he was Dragonborn? Such thoughts did not sit well with him, but the Greybeards might be able to allay these fears with answers.

"Come on," Caleb said to her, "Let's get going."

The continued upwards, seeing the pilgrims back in front of the shrines, passing the small valley where they were confronted by the troll, its body still lying face-down in the snow, blood still seeping from its numerous small wounds.

Before long, they came to the apex, the snow swept aside to give way to the monastery. Two flights of stairs led to the entrance, snaking around a tall, thick stone pillar. Between the feet of the two stair-wells was an offering chest, small tributes of flowers, jewels and coins scattered about. As they ascended the steps, they had the full view of the imposing building that the Greybeards chose as their abode. The whole of the place was grey on grey, the stones that walls were built of were grey, the metal doors were grey as were the slats on the roof. A fitting place for a group of people that called themselves the Greybeards.

The interior was just as monotonous, the only colour being the orange flames of the fires used for light sources, and even those were confined in black wrought metal braziers. The Greybeards themselves sat in a large square-shaped room flanked by two narrow pathways, legs crossed, hands pressed together, heads bowed, a very similar position to the pilgrims. All of them wore dark cloaks with the hoods drawn up, despite them being indoors, and sported beards that grew down to their chest. Though their eyes were shut, they all stood once they had entered, sensing their presence.

"Welcome, Dragonborn," one intoned solemnly.

"We have awaited your arrival for a long time," another said.

"And now you have finally come," spoke a third voice. All of them seemed to have a similar thick voice that was embedded with wisdom with only subtle differences that were no more than nuances.

"What is it you have come here for?" The first one asked. The Greybeards seemed content on ignoring his companion. They really did want for social skills.

Caleb felt both confused and irritated by this statement. They were the ones that had summoned him, not vice versa.

"I'm just answering your summons," he replied.

"But first, let us see if you truly are the Dragonborn. Demonstrate the power that a Dragonborn alone holds. Let us taste of your Voice. Do not fear, it will not harm us."

Caleb complied, funnelling his power into his knowledge of one of the shouts.

"FUS!" The Shout burst from his lips, the blue visible energy that came with it near knocking the few Greybeards in is path off balance.

The Greybeard that seemed to be the group's leader smiled in acknowledgment.

"I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards."

"What does it mean to be Dragonborn?" Caleb asked. Being a native of Cyrodiil, he knew little of the Nord's ancient lore.

"A mortal body instilled with the power of a dragon," Athena replied, the pride of her knowledge showing in her tone, "Their ability to speak in the same tongue as a dragon is a born ability, whereas others need years of learning and discipline to achieve it."

"We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have guided those that came before you," Arngeir replied, in what sounded like a well-rehearsed answer, once more ignoring her.

"I'm not the only Dragonborn?" Caleb had not heard of any predecessors that held this power, just that it was one of the many legends of Skyrim.

"You are not the first," Arngeir confirmed, "There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed the gist upon mortalkind. But we know not if you are the only Dragonborn of this age, you are the only one revealed thus far, so we summoned you here, to guide you as we did those before you."

"And why did you summon me here, apart from the fact that I am Dragonborn?"

"To offer you guidance, and teachings of best how to use your gift in fulfilment of your destiny."

"Defeating Alduin is my destiny, is it not?"

Arngeir pursed his lips. "We can only show you the way, not the destination."

"I am ready to learn," he said, deciding he had heard enough of the philosophical manner in which the elderly masters of the voice spoke.

"We shall see if you have the discipline and the temperament needed to learn the way of the Voice. You have already taken the first steps projecting your voice into a Thu'um, or Shout. Now, let us see if you are willing, and able, to learn. You know one of the Words of Unrelenting Force, but there are two more that will each deepen your understanding of the Shout, and make it more powerful. Master Einarth will you teach you the Second Word, 'Ro'." Arngeir directed his sight at another Greybeard that stepped forth.

"Ro," the man spoke in a low but deep voice with an echo that made it sound as though a thousand voices spoke at once.

The word materialised on the floor as two glyphs that began to glow a vibrant orange colour. Caleb stepped towards the etchings, drawn by the power they emitted. The glow began to intensify before it was lifted from the ground and coalesced around him before it was absorbed. In his mind, he could both hear and see the word like it was branded onto his brain.

"The power of a Dragonborn is truly astonishing," Arngeir spoke with admiration. "Your next trial will be performed in the courtyard. Follow Master Borri."

After several hours spent learning a new Shout, Whirlwind Sprint which allowed his to move for a split second with inhuman speed, learn "Dah", the third Word of Unrelenting Force, and demonstrating his Shouts, they finally allowed him to leave, after giving him another task: find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from Ustengrav.

He and Athena descended High Hrothgar, the former exhausted, the latter quiet but with no complaints. They both left Ivarstead, once more venturing into the dangers of Skyrim's wild country.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

'_You don't win battles with hate. Anger and hate can make you brave, make you strong, but they also make you stupid. You end up tripping over your own two feet.'  
__―__ Michael J. Sullivan, __Theft of Swords_

Morthal was a town near as choked by snow as Windhelm. Ustengrav was supposedly located near to this place, but all she could see thus far was a small, secluded village trapped by frozen hillsides. They completely ignored the miniature town and instead skirted around it, going straight for the ruin. The sun waned and breathed in its final breath before they seen a hint of the ruin, so they made camp. Dangerous it may be to lie out in the open at night, it was even more dangerous to travel. The landscape of Skyrim could be just as hazardous as the creatures that inhabited it. Steep hills, deep marshlands, treacherous cliffs, frozen mountains. One wrong step and the perfidious environment would claim your soul. Hence they set camp and struck a fire, regardless of the threats it could lure. Athena curled up in her bedroll and was instantly lulled to sleep by the soothing heat of the fire and the fatigue of a long march. She wasn't sure how long she had been asleep, but it was still dark when Caleb gently nudged her awake.

"What?" she mumbled groggily.

"We have company," Caleb replied, his eyes fixed on a point north far-off. "Possibly bandits."

Athena could not see them because of the darkness that entrenched the land, but she could hear them. Voices and laughter, loud enough to hear from the distant, but quiet enough to not make out what they were saying.

Athena instinctively reached for her weapons as the voices came gradually closer. Soon the group were visible in the poor light; Athena could discern four silhouettes that were now in talking distance. They must have been attracted by the fire whilst looking for prey at night. She saw one orc, his green chest bare but his lower half covered by leather and fur armor. The nords wore full body-armor, but they were all crude and constructed from mismatched pieces of metal, leather and fur. Two were homely, one having scraggly, greasy black hair and a face full of warts, the other marred by acne scars and shockingly thin, white hair for his age. The third was comely, thick shoulder length auburn hair, smooth skin and chiselled features but his full lips were twisted in an eerie grin directed at her that chilled her to the bone. His icy blue eyes sized her up like she was a piece of produce to eat.

That was when she noticed they had a fifth member with them. A young girl. She couldn't have been any older than Athena, with straight, long brunette hair and almond-shaped eyes large with fear. She wore no more than a thin white cotton shift that exposed her arms and legs below the knees, with nothing for her feet. She must have been frozen.

On closer inspection the girl's limbs was motley of yellow and purple bruises, with shallow cuts, probably from a whip, and she had a slavers collar around her neck with a chain attached. The auburn haired-nord held the chain.

"Look what we have here, boys," the orc sneered. "Fresh meat."

"Manners, Mirkung," said the fair nord to the orc, "Might we know your names, friend?"

"You may not!" Athena snapped before Caleb could reply.

The warted nord glared at her with open-contempt. "This your cur, Imperial? You should muzzle her. It silences bitches as much as a good beating does. Just as Rolda here."

He clapped his hand on the girls shoulder and she visibly flinched under the contact.

"Why is that girl with you?" Caleb asked, seething. "Free her!"

The acne-scarred nord shrugged. "If you say so."

He stepped forth and drew out his sword, but instead of cutting off her collar, he took her head off.

"No!" Caleb cried as the girls lifeless, headless body slumped to the floor.

Athena herself watched the event unfold in horror feeling guilty at being so helpless to protect her.

"She was getting boring anyway," the orc said heartlessly, "She hasn't spoken much since we cut her tongue out."

"You cut her tongue out?" Athena repeated, aghast.

"She was screaming enough to wake up all the draugr in Skyrim," he drawled. "It was getting annoying."

"You bastards make me sick!" Caleb barked angrily.

"We think," began the auburn-haired nord, "We'll be taking your girl now."

Athena felt a chill creep across her navel as she slowly came to the realisation they were talking about her.

"She's not mine, I don't own her," Caleb spat, and for one fearful second she thought he was going to hand her over to them. "But if you want her, you'll have to come through me."

They four looked at each other then burst out laughing.

"Now that is an offer we can't refuse lads!" the orc guffawed.

He unsheathed his two-handed war-hammer, the warty nord a sword and shield, the scarred one a mace and the handsome bandit summoned spells. Without warning, they all charged to attack as one.

Athena cringed as the mace missed Caleb's skull by half an inch, the handle of his sword blocking the attack. She summoned her wits and courage, ran to the orc then sank the dagger still clutched in her hands into the orcs' leg, the steel biting deep into his flesh.

He cried out in pain, his weapon-lock with Caleb decreasing in pressure, allowing him to swipe away his war hammer.

"You little bitch!" he swore, blindly swinging for her.

The three nords feel upon them with steel and sorcery, Caleb throwing up a basic ward in time to shield them from a fireball, then smashing the pommel of his blade into the orcs' temple before he could retaliate, then swung around with his sword poised. The tip of his blade shallowly cut into the scarred nords chest, causing him to stagger backwards, growling angrily. Athena saw the mage powering up a spell and ran over, unthinking, dagger poised to cut straight through his skull. He turned, seized her arm, twisting her wrist until she dropped her weapon, then pulled her body close to him, pressed a dagger to her throat. He shouted, drawing the attention of everyone.

Caleb ran forth to him oblivious or uncaring to the blade to her neck, but was smacked full in the face with a wooden shield. Blood exploded from his injured nose, pouring onto the grass. The other three bandits began closing in on him.

Athena bit down hard on the man's arm. He flung her away from him in pain and disgust, she landed heavily on the ground before him. He summoned a fireball to his fingers then loosed it at her. Athena managed to scramble away just in time. The grass where she had been mere seconds ago was charred black. She hastily made to retrieve her dagger, but the nord seized hold of her, lifted her into the arm then threw her several feet away. Her bones screeched in protest on impact and she lay stunned from pain for a few seconds then attempted to regain her footing, but he cruelly kicked her in the stomach, his metal greaves winding her. Caleb flew out of his fight with the other bandits towards the nord standing over her, a sadistic grin on his face. He turned to face Caleb, secretly casting a lightening spell. Once he was close enough he fired the bolt off, which caught him in the chest. He careened backwards, landing on the ground, the air knocked from his lungs, his chest riddled with a burning pain that sent his body into mild convulsions.

Both he and Athena lay on the ground, completely conscious but incapacitated. She saw the nord looming over her body, with that affable, eerie grin before awareness fled from her body.


End file.
